

UNITES) STATES OF AMERICA 


- A ^ 

' ■- A A 



















r^^^^^^^^^^P^^^PV!^IH&Edll^iB«wlQl^«ln^!B[^itt 

fAWJm»^M»ilW»l!ffi^MlMMWgMlMECT^MiiBi 

If T^U|||BiA 

TJkV^Bv^wAAf 








R^ll 















/ 


■A • 


/ 


✓ 


r 




I 



' 9> ♦ 

I 




K * 


4 \ 






By JOHN COLEMAN. 


AND 


By the Author of “ADDIE’S HUSBAND, 


17 TO 27 VaNdeWater 3 t 

•^ewTo^K:. 








* M 


Esssiiliallj a Paper for tie Home Circle. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 
cialties are features peculiar to this journal. 


A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc., by a noted 
modiste, is printed in every number. ' 

The Answers to Correspondents contain reliable information on every con- 
ceivable subject. ' 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, 
on receipt of $3: two copies for $5. Getters-up of clubs can afterward add 
single copies at each. We will be responsible for remittances sent in 
Registered Letters or by Post-office Money ' Orders. Postage free. Specimen 
copies sent free. 


\ 


GEORGE 



Publisher, 


F. 0. Boz 3751. 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


CURLY: AN ACTOR’S STORY. 


llA Related by JOHN COLEMAN. 


ILLUSTRATED BY J C. DOLL3IAN. 




AND 


\ 


J 


MY POOR WIFE 




By the Author op “Addie’s Husband.” 







f:WL 17 .385 

.v 



NEW YORK: 

OEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 




17 TO 27 VaNDK WATER STREET. 





t.’iirtirfK 


r-">i mgi* 



PT— - -. .Hffi 


nf 







) ft 



lIu^^SKfvlIvy fCHi '9i 

(If 



CURLY. 










;/ 


CURLY: AN ACTOR’S STORY. 


INDUCTION 

ON THE queen’s HIGHWAY. 

‘‘Pike,” the mana^^er of our little company of strollers, and I, 
were on the road to Kilmarnock. We had left Greenock for Glas- 
gow, by train— leaving our luggage (there was not much of it) to be 
sent after us — while we walked on to Paisley, where Pike had a 
friend in the local tragedian, Mr. Jamieson— popularly known as 
“ Lang Willie ”^who would be “ good ” for a sovereign. Alasl 
when we got to Paisley, we found “ Lang Willie ” was “ under the 
weather ” himself — and the unexpected sovereign dwindled down to 
five shillings— which was the entire amount of his night’s share for 
acting “ Bertram,” in the gloomy but powerful tragedy of that 
name. 

When the play was over, Mr. Jamieson took us to his lodgings, 
gave us a hearty welcome, and a hot supper; after which, 1 sat and 
listened while the veterans acted “their young eucounters o’er 
again.” Amidst their pleasant reminiscences, Pike happened to 
mention the name of “ Curly.” At the sound, Jamieson became sad 
and silent. After a while. Pike inquired— 

“ Where is he the noo?” 

“ God knows!” replied the other. “ I’ve not seen him for a month 
or more. He aye bursts out when the anniversary of that awful 
time comes round. He generally stays away for a month or sis 
weeks, and comes back without a word, and resumes his life where 
he left off, just as if nothing had happened. Poor Curly! Poor 
Flora! But there; what is it Mistress Macbeth says?— 

“ ‘ Things without all remedy 
Should be without regard; what’s done is done.’ 

So sup up and clear out— that is, if you mean to go to Kilmarnock 
to-morrow. Good-bye, young gentleman. 1 hope you’ll be luckier 
than this weather-beaten old villain and myself. Stick to the 
‘text;’ study night and day; and, who knows, you may take the 
world by storm one of these days.” 

“I’ll try,” 1 said. 

“Good lad! Good lad! Kemember, ‘there’s no such word as 
fail.’ Good-bye, Pike; good luck to you at Kilmarnock.” 

And so we took our leave of “Lang "Willie,” and sought our 
humble hostelry, where ten minutes later 1 lay fast asleep, not even 
dreaming of the influence that accidental encounter with Mr. Jamie- 
son, and another yet to come, were to have on my future destiny. 


6 


cubly: Aiq- actor’s story. 

Next morning after we had paid our score, we had only eight- 
een pence left; but what is money when you have youth, health, 
strength, and ambition? Thank God! 1 had all these; as for my 
companion, poor fellow, he had had so many rubs of fortune that he 
was equal to any iate. By the way, his name was not “ Pike ” at 
all; he had merely arrived at that sobriquet from his marvelous vo- 
racity, and his extraordinary facial resemblance to the pike fish. He 
had fulfilled one short engagement in Edinburgh or Glasgow some 
thirty years before 1 met him, but all the interregnum had been 
passed vagabondizing about in halls and barns in the small towns 
of Scotland. He was always in debt, always in difficulty, but some- 
how or other he always kept afloat, always kept a light heart, and 
always had a pleasant word for everybody. 

Although it was in the month of May, the snow was on the 
ground: fortunately for us it had been frozen into a fine crisp con- 
sistency. The sun fiushed the horizon with a tender violet, lighting 
the hill-tops with fire, and making the distant road, which lay be- 
fore us, alive with rubies and emeralds and other precious stones, 
set in great masses of gold and silver. Of course, when we came up 
with them, our magic jewels vanished — no, not quite vanished, they 
had only gone a little furtlier ofi; and so we followed in their 
track, just as the people follow in the pursuit of Pleasure in Noel 
Baton’s picture. It was, indeed, a lovely morning, and the young 
blood ran riot in my veins while the birds cliirped and sung to us 
from every hedge. I was in love with my art, and the present or- 
deal seemed to me the “ rough brake through which greatness 
must pass.” 1 fiattered myself that 1 was another Edmund Kean 
in embryo— besides, was 1 not about to open at ihe Theater Royal, 
Kilmarnock, in Romeo? (Alas! this Theater Royal turned out to 
be a barn over a stable!) 1 was Romeo already. 1 must confess my 
mind was sorely exercised as to my future Juliet, Miss Madeline 
Montmorency. Was she short or tall, slim or stout, dark or fair? (1 
may as well state at once that she turned out to be old enough tor 
my mother, and wore a false “ front,” so 1 think it was called.) 1 
was to have a guinea a week and a benefit, all tlie receipts, after the 
shares and stock debt were taken up. So, building these castles in 
the air, 1 trotted along, full of the delightful anticipations of youth 
and hope; while, as for Pike, he was as jolly as usual. About mid- 
day we stopped at a farm-house a little out of the main road, tvhere 
he negotiated a lunch of oatcake and milk for sixpence out of our 
little store. When we had done ample justice to our frugal repast 
he took a pull at his pipe, and then we resumed our journey, beguil- 
ing the time with snatches of songs and theatrical reminiscences, of 
which he had an abuiidance. Incidentally he mentioned the name 
of Curly; then he stopped and changed the subject. This re- 
minded me of the hitch in the conversation on the preceding night, 
so I ventured to inquire who and what “ Curly ” was. After some 
hesitation. Pike told me the story 1 am about to relate^a story re- 
markable enough binder any circumstances, but rendered still more 
remarkable by an incident which actually occurred during its narra- 
tion. Had it not been for this strange coincidence the narrative 
would not have needed this induction. 


cukly: ak actor’s story. 


7 


CHAPTER 1. 

DONALD’S DBBDT. 

As 1 despair of reproducing Pike’s happy knack of spinning a 
yarn, i must tell his tale in my own prosaic way. 

Many years ago Donald Campbell was a Writer to the Signet in 
Edinburgh. As ior his writing, he did notning but compose verses, 
and very bad ones they were. He was young, well born, well bred, 
of pleasant and engaging manners, very handsome, and very idle. 
“ He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow *' — left 
with a small annuity bequeathed by her husband, a distinguished 
officer, who fell at Waterloo. Donald was an assiduous diner-out, 
great at balls and parties, played a capital game at billiards, went 
to the theater frequently, and sedulously cultivated the acquaint- 
ance of the players, amongst whom he posed himself as a man with 
expectations. In person he was a j^oung Apollo, tall and straight 
as a dart, fair complexion, a pure Greek face, straight nose, eyes 
blue as sapphires and bright as diamonds, a head of sunny hair 
which fell in a mass of golden curls about his neck. Yes, the hair 
was very beautiful, but, unfortunately, there was not much worth 
speaking about under it. His face and his hair were very much ad- 
mired— the latter obtained for him the sobriquet of “ Curly,” a cog- 
nomen which clung to him throughout his life. 

This interesting young gentleman generally began the day by 
shaking hands with himself, and admiring his handsome face in 
the glass. Then he condescended to permit the poor fond mother 
to worship him during his breakfast, after which he sallied out for 
his morning game of billiards. In the afternoon he sunned himself 
in Princess Street, “ to give the girls a treat,” as he modestly put it. 
After that an early dinner (in those days late dinners were not in 
vogue),, then the theater or the dance, whichever presented the 
greater attraction. 

Usually his poor stupid head had room only for one idea; but at 
last he managed to smuggle in two at one and the same time. His 
first idea was, on the strength of his handsome face and comely car- 
cass, to make a wealthy marriage. In order to enable him to carry 
out this highly laudable object, he managed, through his father’s 
name and his mother’s infiuence, to get himself nominated for a 
cornetcy in the Midlothian Volunteers; and a veiy pretty figuie he 
made in his uniform whenever he had a chance of airing it. His 
second, and it must be confessed, most dominant idea was to go on 
the stage and make his fortune. Others had done so, why should 
not he? 

At that period there were not — at least not in Curly’s set— many 
marriageable young ladies of large fortune, so he contemplated 
seeking ” fresh woods and pastures new.” But there was a difficulty 
not wholly unconnected with coin of the realm, so he was con- 
demned to vegetate in ” Auld Reekie,” at least for the present. 

He was now five or six and twenty, and had never done a hand’s 


8 


curly: ak actor’s story. 


turn to make himself useful in his life; nor, indeed, had he the 
slightest intention of so doing His mission was to be ornamental, 
and he knew it. Could he only obtain an opportunity of displaying 
his manly beauty on the stage, the women — heiresses especially — 
would bow down before and worship him. Sublime inspiration! 
He would get up an amateur performance for the purpose of pro- 
viding the Highlanders of the Hebrides with breeches. To illustrate 
the importance of small clothes, the comedy of “The Belle's 
Stratagem ” was selected, and Curly was to be Horicourt. He had 
ajightftd on his feet. He was a born comedian— he had animal 
spirits in abundance — his laughter was contagious, and he was sub- 
limely and unconsciously impudent. That he was good-looking no 
one could deny. In fact, when Sir George Touchwood exclaimed. 
“ Confound the dog, how handsome he looks!” every one indorsed 
the opinion. Next day the blockheads in the papers pronounced 
him a genius full-fledged — that, in fact, he had only to show him- 
45elf in London to extinguish Charles Kemble, Elliston, Jones, and 
the rest of the London players. The resident light comedian was a 
very distinguished actor, but, of course, he wasn’t to compare with 
the new Doricourt ! 

Curly’s mother, a strict Presbyterian, by no means approved of 
her darling’s disgracing the house of Campbell by exhibiting him- 
self as a stage-player, and several differences of opinion arose be- 
tween them'on the subject. These jangles culminated in a flt of 
apoplexy, which cut short the old lady’s life and his means of liv- 
ing, as, of course, his mother’s annuity terminated with her exist- 
ence. To do the lad justice, he was very fond of his mother, and 
her loss was a great blow to him. She had left him a small hoard 
of two or three hundred pounds, which she had scraped together 
with great difficulty; but he soon made “ducks and drakes” of 
that, and it was melting away rapidly when Harry Johnston, the 
“ Scotch Roscius,” as he was called, came down from London for 
a few nights to “ star ” in his native city. Johnston was a very 
handsome man and a very fine actor. His acting was a revelation 
to Curly, who became a red-hot partisan, and distinguished him- 
self by the demonstrative fervor of his admiration. On the last 
night of his engagement the Roscius intimated that he had been 
driven out of London in consequence of having taken the liberty to 
thrash that “ fat Adonis of forty,” the Prince Regent, for insult- 
ing his (Johnston’s) wife, and that he had taken the theaters at 
Aberdeen and Dundee, and was now going to settle down in man- 
agement in his native land. Next day Curly got one of the actors 
to introduce him to the new manager, and succeeded there and then 
in obtaining an engagement. He had achieved one step on the road 
to fortune. 


CHAPTER 11. 

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 

Upon joining the company at Dundee, Donald opened in Dori- 
oourt, and at once made a great hit. Now “ Lang Willie ” was the 
tragedian of the company. Although the stronger and more manly 



DEEMPSTER DEALT CURLY ONE TREMENDOUS BLOW ON THE HEAD WHICHT 

LAID HIM ON THE GROUND. 



v'-^’ t f ' .V- ^ r ,.^'v . ■ ■, y-\^\g^ ' •• 

* **,(*/• ••• V , ..^■•^ 4 — ‘^ ■* ••-'■» ■ 

•-. . 5 • '• Id* •i-'T ^ .r . 







*r^ » 


^ ft * u>. 


. * ^ * **• * * ^ ^ 
'■'*•••- ‘V , ;'-v*=^ •*< '’■ ■■ ; •■ • , .■’ 

\}; ' . ; .. ■ \ 1 












• 


. ^ 


> ■ ■ 


- . i« , f " j • ^ 

-, ■ . - .-■ -. ■ -:-*^ ^s.‘ r 

, . . • - * .V * ^ • , * *' 

-,'; >-n. ' 

■ ■ ■ 


K •.. 


... -"f^ 




^.r.S. 


. f 


V* ' 


fif ^ 


V - . 








.v*.' 


.t 














, 4 ^:* 'v^^’ 

' ’ S. v^r ‘■'- V 


>A-. - ,. 






■ -^ / . . 

I • .» -^ 

i • * ■ ■ * 

•^_. Jj^. ... t / • • 






V 7' 






-./> 


v V ■ 


,J’- 


f r ■ ••' ■■• 

. '■• J' 


. f 

X.," - ^ - 


/ > *■. 


— . r 1 


^ •' ;>‘ . 

r, ^ \ 


l^ ’ 

' * . I • 




V../' J . 


1 1 • .? 3 - 


<,'ir .- . % 

p‘^ 'y 


*• •! 


■ : *4 ’• ■ • 

'• <r 

»r<. . ' « » > 

-‘’T -T 

. ** • . • . iy ' ' ' 


• -H'.. 


'■- ^ '^r-r 


K, 






* 




. ■EV ^ - •. 

' -% • • .♦ . * • •• . . \ « .«• ^*•^ -y i 


$ r*' 


• fi’- 


w.' 


••4 . > 


‘, \ " 3- 
t ' 


^ . 




V ». V < ■ ‘ 


*. V 

•. *J-.V'. ^- 


, :■ 

^ "Kjip I / - ' :. w . C 


. -i : 

7 


•A--* '• 


4-.. 


<’ » w-^.'; 








•s ^ 


''•■*•• .-^ . • ■ . . ts-,.- - ■■■• 


:*S.:' ' 


^ #• V' ?• \ 


-i, -■ 


3' ' *■ ^ ».’" ' ^ ^ 

.-t: . V " ■' 

• -k! J... .' . i ... ' I 

• •• <« - w ' *' •■ . •- ». - 




.'rr 


•J! ^ uLi'-.'. . 

''. 'V' ■■ ■ .- 

... . ,' :>■■ ; . 

•■'.’ 

■ -.f ' « ^ . . j. . •_ 

^ •'•x-r-* > 4. <■ ^ 

\ V. ’ 

0 ’• 

■.■•-•■ ^'X\ ’ ' • 




• • y 

■■tT. : 


\ - 

■/. - 


*• : . m- 

. • ‘ . 
"I- 

** 


\ 


^ 77 ► • 


^ 1 / ' ’ 






yr V • . ,r' 


V -■ ' 


-• • r 




V' ^ 




• ■'’' I 


■ ..j -41 * sC> - • ^ 


• .■ V 

O'. 

. % 




■ 


"* ,. '^ ' »i .T. • * ^ • 

,j .• 


• ‘. 'C'.' 


<■ . 


^ y. 


t * 


4 ■ " k 




Ck>y‘ ■ 4 - ■• 






■<i ^ 

4- 


.v.>.V- 


- ?• ^ 


“v’ -• 


•r •' " 
-.: h-V* 


' *7 

■ <• 

^ . ■» ?>>.■ ■'. -.S 1 . 

>r»- H , . 






/• .S:-^ - - 

i - 




t . 


’ •'■ j 't- »■ ^ " . V ' ■ I' ^ X . - 

V ■-.yf^'.^ 7^.-. *. ^ :?. >• 

' ' -r .. 

. I - .i 


f‘ - i-* *(.••" , , _■..'; 

* \ ■ ■ . -» ■ , .-V 

*■ 1 . ■‘v»i._ 


”.>• 


•if' 


"-rr y'S'^' 


> S’ ■ ' - i .>--.• ir • 






.2 cV*- - 
.. V • 


^ . 


.•V -..'-^ .' . »V i ■■ •. .- - ;- •' . ^ ^ t~\ .■• ' <.^ -■>. ^ 

- •*' “■ * / 't ■ ' _-• - <- .V-- 

v!^'-' .' . 'k*' ' ■ '.'* . '■■■-' , * iy - , ■ 

* V- . • - ■ '■ ■: 4r . ' ' ' .' •. -* \ A. ' < .*- • • ' • 

•"T-y -v. “ ’.'• . ..., 


\ yy 

> *■ . f\ 


>v •• . 


• « ^ « . .. 


1 


¥ 

i .* 

/ 1 


•r 1 ■ Vs- 


: ..1 '’"r 

O' ^ I »• 

7 t . 1.- 



* 4 : 




.--T'. -A- ^■■: ‘ .Jn.. - — ‘-k 5, *-"-.• T. tj,*.? '.» 

' ',* *< ''* t- ■ i. V.' ' — _ ■ ' • * . • ~' - I “ X ' ■” ' '» ! * ' 

•.>-'■ .'M^ ^ ' >..< -> •.. /' 1 •■^' >;• . ‘ '• ■• ^-•' '• ’ :■ ■'..-•■‘■'V^. - 1 v^■ 

. ^-.yy-sy^i yi.^ - : --y r 


curly: an- actor’s story. 


11 


character, he “cottoned” to Curly at once, and, notwithstanding 
his frivolity and weakness, became greatly attached to him. They 
occupied the same apartments, and soon were firm friends — 
“ friends at the age when friends are brothers.” Decidedly Master 
Curly’s lines were cast in pleasant places. Everybody was kind and 
considerate — for the young beggar had a most ingratiating way 
with him— and despite his egoism, which habitually asserted itself 
with frank and perfect self-belief, he was petted and spoiled by 
both the men and women in the company, just as if he had been a 
great, handsome Newfoundland dog. Johnston put him forward 
by degrees— “ nursed ” him gradually into an important line of 
business— coached him up in several of his own parts, spread abroad 
the report that he was a man of fortune, w'ho had taken to the 
stage jpour passer le temps, made a friend of him, and took him into 
society, where he became as great a success socially as he was ar- 
tistically. At Aberdeen he was even more popular than in Dundee. 
The ladies admired him especially — indeed, he was the idol of the 
hour. At that time, before the railways were in existence, the ad- 
ver.t of the players in a country town was an important event, 

Mr. M’Allister, the factor of the Duke of S , a man of large 

wealth and considerable local influence, had an only daughter, 
who, besides being a great beauty, was an heiress in her own right, 
being entitled on her majority to an income of ten or twelve thou- 
sand a year, bequeathed to her absolutely by her mother. Flora 
M’Allister was hot-blooded, impetuous, and utterly unconvtntional. 
She fell in love with Curly at first sight. Every time he acted she 
occupied a conspicuous place in the boxes. The popular rumors as 
to his position in society may probably have increased her infatua- 
tion. However, that may be, every drop of blood in her veins 
thrilled at the sound of his voice; she thought of him by day; she 
dreamed of him by night. On his part, he was attracted by her 
beauty and her distinguished demeanor, and the first thing he did 
every night when he came on the stage was to look up to her box. 

Flora was by no means a typical Highland girl — not, at least, as 
we understand them — for she was dark as night, with an abundance 
of dark brown hair, a beautiful oval face, wonderful large gray 
eyes, which flashed with fire or melted into tears with equal facil- 
ity. Her figure was tall and stately, but superbly rounded. “In 
joining contrasts lieth Love’s delight.” Naturally the fair- haired 
Curly’s heart went out to this dark-haired beauty. “ The eye can 
be as vocal as the tongue,” and though no word had passed between 
them, they understood each other perfectly. His difficulty, how- 
ever, was to obtain an introduction, for although Johnston was a 
frequent visitor at M’Allister’s house, he had never once invited 
Curly to accompany him. M’Allister intended his daughter’s hand 
for his young friend Daniel Deempsier, the Laird of Strathmines, 
whose estate adjoined his own. As for asking the young lady’s 
consent, that was quite superfluous— if she didn’t know her own 
mind, her father did. Johnston, from behind the curtains of his 
box, frequently observed the optical duets which nightly took place 
between the young people; he saw how the land lay, and he 
thought it his duty as a man of honor to lend no countenance to 
this sort of nonsense. Love, however, laughs at all precautions — 


12 


CUKLY: AiT actor's story. 


surmounts all obstacles; and, of course, in the fullness of time. 
Curly and Flora met. 

There was a grand ball given at the Assembly Rooms upon some 
public occasion, and everybody, who was anybody, was there. Thf 
belle of the ball beyond dispute was Flora, and it was equally uv 



questionable that the “ swell ” of the ball was Curly. Yes, he was 
decidedly “ the star of the goodly company,’' the cynosure of all 
eyes — admired by all the women, detested by all the men. 

Amongst the former there was but one opinion, “ He was all too 
lovely ’’—amongst the latter he was the most insolent puppy that 


curly: AN" actor’s story. 


13 


-ever walked on two legs. Hard words, however, break no bones, 
and he floated about sublimely insouciant, resplendent in his cor- 
net’s uniform — his ambrosial locks floating about his brow in a gold- 
en nimbus — his head and shoulders towering over everybody. Be- 
sides these personal advantages, he was the only man in the place 
who knew how to handle a woman in a waltz, and as it was a new 
dance he was consequently the one most in demand. He and Flora 
had been in the room for three mortal hours, continually meeting, 
almost touching each other, but never once daring to speak. He 
only waited his chance. At last it came. Johnston had just 
finished the Lancers with Miss M’Allister, and they were prome- 
nading the room together, when they came face to face with Curly. 
Before the manager had time to escape Donald requested an intro- 
duction, and when the next waltz struck up Flora was whirling 
about in his arms. It was the old, old story, that has been told a 
hundred, yea, a hundred thousand times. Of course, they had 
known each other all their lives, perhaps in some other life, etc. Re- 
gardless of everything and everybody, they danced together for the 
rest of the evening. Society took note of this, and Society was 
shocked. Johnston shook his head. Mr. Daniel Deempster, who 
had been selected by Mr. M’Allister as his future son-in-law, was 
not a dancing party, and he shook his fist furtively, and longed to 
make it acquainted with Curly’s head. Then, for he was “ canny,'* 
Dempster inquired of Flora “ if she didn’t feel tired. Might he not 
order the carriage?” “No, she was not tired, the ball had only 
just begun, and Mr. Deempster need not order the carriage.” So 
saying she returned to the waltz and to Curly. Tne Laird of Strath- 
mines was a giant of six feet two, with the eye of a ha\yk, and the 
beak of an eagle; a huge chest, a brawny pair of arms, and a fist 
like a sledge-hammer. A dangerous person when put out of the 
way. He was put out of the way now. Casting a baleful glare on 
his rival, he made all sail for the card-room, where he found his 
father-in-law that was to be in the “nine holes.” Obviously he 
couldn’t interrupt him then, but when the rubber was over, and 
M’Allister had lost the game, through his partner having revoked, 
Deempster related his grievance to ears already, unfortunately, dis- 
posed to anger. The two men returned to the ball-room hastily, 
^ind sought Flora, who was at that instant about to begin another 
dance. 

“ Come, Flora,’* said M’Allister. “ Time’s up— carriage is wait- 
iug.” 

“ So sorry, papa,” she replied, sweetly, “ but I’m engaged to Mr. 
Campbell for the next waltz. Let me introduce him to you.” 

Curly blandly murmured in his most insinuating manner, “ De- 
lighted — deliahted— I’m sure.’* The music struck up and away 
they went, “pursuing, encircling, caressing.” M’Allister stood 
dazed and dumfounded, at last he muttered, 

“ Well! D — n his impudence!” 

Deempster said nothing, but made up his mind, if ever he got 
the chance, that he would break every bone in Curly’s skin. 

During the waltz the lovers arranged their plan of action. 
Flora’s maid, Jeannie M’Pherson, had a brother, a carpenter in the 
theater, who could be relied on as a faithful messenger. Having 


14 cukly: ak actor’s story. 

established this trusty medium for communication, the rest was 
easy. 

The dance being over, Curly escorted Flora to her father, but 
neither the “ stern parent ” nor his intended son-in law vouchsafed 
the slightest recognition as they turned and left the room. 

When the M’Allisters reached home, a terrible scene occurred. 
The old gentleman had had too much wine, or whisky, or both, and 
he asserted the paternal authority in a manner which set Ilora’s 
Highland blood in a flame. She turned round and faced him, giv- 
ing him almost as good as he sent, and wound up by saying: 

“ At any rate, in three months’ time 1 shall be my own mistress, 
and free from either coercion or insult!” 

The old man replied: 

” Very well; but till those three months are over you are under 
my control, and by G— ! you don’t cross yonder doorstep with- 
out my permission. Don’t let there be any mistake about that!” 


CHAPTER 111. 

THE ELOPEMENT. 

From that night forth Flora was never permitted to leave her 
father’s house on any pretext whatever, but 

Stony limits can not hold love out. 

And what love can do, that dares love attempt. 

Despite .locks, bolts, and bars the lovers daily communicated with 
each other, and it was fully arranged that they were to elope together 
the very day Flora came of age. 

A week before that time the theatrical season terminated at Aber- 
deen, and the company took their departure for Inverness. 

Deempster, who had kept a vigilant eye on ” the play-actor fel- 
low,” as he called Curly, finding that he had really left the town, 
relaxed his watch, and M’Allister himself breathed more freely. He 
was devotedly attached to his daughter, and tried by every means in 
his power to induce her to forget the stormy interview on the night 
of the ball. The effort was in vain, for he could not unsay what 
he had said, while she was implacable, and remained disdainfully 
silent. As for Deempster, she did not even notice the man’s exist- 
ence. 

Three months passed away, and Flora attained her twenty-first 
birthday. The time for the elopement had arrived. It was a night 
of storm and tempest. Willie accompanied Curly from Inverness 
to see him start on his perilous journey. When all the house was 
at rest,- Flora, attended by the faithful Jeannie, went forth into her 
lover’s arms. Then, her courage subdued by her love, she melted 
into tears. 

” Oh, my love! My prince!” she said, ” fold me to your heart. 
Let me feel your strong arm around me, that I may know 1 am 
yours.” 

“ Mine, and mine only, and always,” ths young man replied. 

At this moment W illie emerged from the other side of the coach,^ 


curly: an actor’s story. 15 

to which he had discreetly withdrawn with the postilions when he 
saw Flora coming. 

“ Dearest/’ said Curly, “ let me introduce my best friend to you.” 

“ Mr. Jamieson,” said Flora, extending her hand, ‘‘ my husband’s 
friends are mine.” 

” Madam,” said Jamieson, ” should you ever need a friend, you 
may rely on me.” 

” 1 shall remember,” she replied. 

Then she embraced Jeannie, and stepped into the coach. Tbe girl 
turned away toward the house, silently weeping. The young men 
clasped hands, and bade each other good-bye; the postilions set 
spurs to their horses, and drove away. 

When the carriage was lost in the darkness, Willie walked rapidly 
toward the coach office to catch the Inverness mail, so as to return 
to his duties on the morrow. ” They are a bonnie couple,” he said, 
” and 1 think she has ballast enough to keep him straight. They 
ought to be happy — and yet— ‘ I’ve an ill-divining heart.’ 1 shall 
miss him more than 1 thought 1 should ; he has frank and pleasant 
ways— and then he’s so like my little brother Sandie, that’s dead — 
the same laugh, the same curly pow, the same bright blue eyes. I 
don’t know whether it was the laugh, or the pow, or- the eyes that 
first drew me to him. Ah! here "v^e are.” So saying, he entered 
the archway of the White Horse, where the mail was waiting. 

That very hour Deempster dreamed that the woman he loved had 
fled her father’s house with the “ play-actor fellow.” The thought 
maddened his brain, and burst the bonds of sleep. Without an in- 
stant’s delay he slipped into his clothes, and, regardless of the rain 
and the darkness, he rushed down the High Street. From the op- 
posite direction came the tramp of horses’ feet at a gallop, the rat- 
tle of wheels, and the loud tantara of the guard’s horn. It was the 
Northern mail on its way to Inverness. The sounds got nearer and 
nearer, till at length they were close upon him. As he stepped 
aside, and cluog to the wall to let the coach pass, for a moment a 
vivid sheet of lightning illumined the horizon as brightly as if it 
had been noontide. Looking up he saw Jamieson on the box; the 
next moment the coach had vanished. The sight of the young 
tragedian confirmed his suspicions, and he growled, ” Curse the 
long-legged brute. What can have brought him here at this un- 
earthly hour? What but to help the other scoundrel to rob me of 
the light of my life? Yes, yes, it must be so. Perhaps it may not 
be too late; perhaps — ” And so, with hell raging in his heart, he 
ran fast as his feet could carry him to the Gairloch Head. 

In her agitation Jeannie had forgotten to bolt the door. He 
dashed it open, and rushing headlong into M’Allister’s room, startled 
him out of his drunken slumber by giving vent to his suspicions. 
At first the old man was half dazed, but as soon as he could com- 
prehend the state of affairs he jumped up as if he had been shot. 
A minute later, and they were in Flora’s chamber. It was too late! 

When he found the bird had flown, M’Allister turned grim as 
death. ” Go down, Dan’l, go down,” said he, ” and bring me my 
dog whip.” Deempster strode down-stairs, and returned imme- 
diately with the whip. A moment after they burst open J eannie’a 


16 cukly: an actor’s story. 

room. Poor Jeannie! She had overheard all, but she pretended 
sleep. 

“ That’ll do,” roared M'Allisler. “ Come out o’ that; none ot 
your humbug wjth me.” And he sent the whip flying around her 
ears. “ A^'here is she? tell me! Blast you! tell me, you youngs 
Jezebel, or I’ll cut the liver out of 5^ou!’' 

The girl sprung from her bed and confronted him, with her teeth 
set and her eyes a-glare. Then, folding her arms, she said, “Cut 
awa’, but de’il a word you’ll get out o’ jeannie.” 

“ Curse you, then; take that — and that!” roared the infuriated, 
father, as he sent the whip writhing into her tender flesh. Fortu- 
nately the girl had thrown herself upon the bed in her clothes, a cir- 
cumstance to which she probably owed her life. Mad with rage,- 
M’Allister plied the whip until she dropped down senseless. Then 
Deempster intervened. “ It’s no use whipping a dead dog,” said 

he. “ D n her! there let her lie! They’re gone North by the 

mail; we haven’t a moment to lose. I’ll gang and see the horses 
ready while you get dressed.” 

Half an hour later a coach and four horses, with two postilions^ 
were at the door. Both men examined the priming of their pistols, 
both filled their flasks with spirits, then off they went through the 
night and the darkness. 

When the chase commenced the lovers had barely two hours’ 
start; their destination was St. Andrews. Immediately on their 
arrival they were to be married by a young clergyman, a friend and 
fellow-student of Curly’s. As they sped through the night, what 
were rain, storm, or tempest to them? Their arms clasped round 
each other, their kisses on each other’s lips — they were in Hea\enl 
The horses were strong and well-trained, the postilions were wiry 
and indefatigable — on, on they went, little dreaming that they were 
already being hotly pursued. At last dawn struggled over the 
Grampians. It was a dull gray morning, the rain still came driz- 
zling down, and the sun strove in vain to emerge from the mist. 
What mattered that? The love in their hearts made sunshine^ 
enough to illumine the universe. At this moment they pulled up. 
Curly alighted eagerly. Imagine his consternation w hen he discov- 
ered they liad arrived, not at Dundee, where he intended to cross 
the Firth of Tay by Broughty Ferry, but at a^niserable fishing vil- 
lage miles and miles higher up in the direction ot Perth! The truth 
was, after changing horses at Forfar, the poor postilions, soaked 
through and through, half blinded by the rain and sleet, and wholly 
fogged by too frequent potations of “ mountain dew,” had taken a 
wrong turning and lost their way in the dark. To reach Dundee 
was now impossible, for tbe horses were thoroughly blown, and the 
postilions refused to budge another foot. To make matters still 
pleasanter, the storm, which had lulled for a moment, now burst 
into a hurricane, the sea leaped mountains high, and at this point 
the Firth was absolutely impassable. They must wait the cessation 
of the storm. Alas! that waiting! 

If they were only at the other side, the holy words once said, all 
the fathers and lovers in the world could not unsay them. Any- 
how, there was no help for it, so they rested all that day at the viD 
lage inn. 











V 


>?• 









* *v 









'i , « 











»/ 




r. 



s 


> 


i 

< 



1 


{ 


f ^ 



■ 


•r 

f-y 


I, 




'- 7 '/ 




^ ' 






<; 


- "i • 


j 



-x 

•f.-. 



- -v - 
. • ^ 




^ 







. • * « » 

V . *> , ■ 

. ♦ 

^ / • # 


r 


--t ’ ■ 


V 




N. 




i • ' 



« 




. : 













f 


4 


r 


< 








k % . • ^ 





N • 




t 



^ V^‘'. y j:* r 


Jt 






^ »* • 

4 • 






J. ^ 


»' T. 




4 


•v 


V 





r 


» 


19 


cuely: an actoe’s stoey. 

It was a day of doubts and tears —a day of delicious hopes and 
desperate anxieties. With all poor Curly’s follies he had the heart 
of a man and the instincts of a gentleman. Although he had told 
the innkeeper that Flora and he were man and wife, yet, lest the 
breath of slander should hereafter taint her name, he slept that night 
at the ferry-house, or rather he tried to sleep, for he could scarcely 
close his eyes for impatience and anxiety. As for Flora, she slept, 
and dreamed she was in Elysium. 

Meanwhile, the irate father and the angry lover encountered mid* 
way on the journey to Inverness Mr. Ballantyne, factor to the Duke 
of Athol, who was driving post haste to Aberdeen. He had come 
by the direct route on the highway, and had changed horses where 
the mail stopped two hours before. The fugitives were not among 
the passengers, of that he was quite certain, and it would have been 
impossible for them to have reached Inverness by any other convey- 
ance without his encountering them on the road. More than that, 
he had been at the theater the night previous, when an apology was 
made for Curly, who had been announced, strangely enough, for 
the part of Tangent in “ The Way to Get Married.” It was alleged 
by Johnston that ” Mr. Campbell had disappeared at a mcmeni’s 
notice, and gone no man knew whither.” 

With curses both loud and deep M’Allister and Deempster re- 
traced their steps, and returned to Aberdeen in company with Bal- 
lantyne; then changing horses, they turned their faces toward the 
south. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ON THE TEACK. 

Aftee a night of horrors. Curly arose with the sun, and rushed 
to the window. The sea was still raging furiously. The ferry- 
boat was a mere cockle-shell; ’twould be sheer madness to try the 
passage till the storm abated. Then he went to look up the postil- 
ions and the horses to see if it were possible to get on as far as 
Dundee. Alas! the postilions were dead drunk — the horses dead 
beat and lame besides. Obviously there was nothing for it but to 
wait. He walked by the shore, and tried to cool his fevered brain 
in vain. Then he turned into the inn. Flora was already up, rosy 
as her namesake, and hungry as a hunter. No bread-and-butter 
miss this, but a w^oman — a true, large-hearted woman — with a well- 
balanced mind enshrined in a well-balanced body. She was elate 
and confident; he was feverish and anxious. The breakfast, which 
consisted of an abundance of fish, fresh from the sea an hour ago, a 
dish of ham and eggs, and delicious fresh bannocks and butter, lay 
untouched before Curly. As for Flora, she had the healthy appe- 
tite of young, fresh, vigorous womanhood, and was not ashamed of 
it. She did ample justice to the simple fare. He couldn’t taste a 
morsel, and called for whisky. She looked on with wondering 
eyes, astonished, and, it must be confessed, not over pleased. When 
he had got a dram or two down he began to pick up a little, and 
trifled with the breakfast, but it was in vain. He became fretful 


^0 


curly: actor’s story. 


and iriitaMe; every sound disconcerted him —the waiters’ footsteps 
in the passage, the creaking of the door, the histling of the wind. 

All at once, as if by magic, the siorm ceased, the sea became calm 
as a mill-pool. The ferryman came bustling in. 

“ The ferry was a’ richt the noo. If the laty and the shentleman’s 
would like to cross, David would be ready for them in twa min- 
utes.” Curly became radiant; in fact, became the young heio 
Flora’s fancy had painted him. Recovering his appetite, he at- 
tacked the breakfast vigorously. 

As he did so the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the roll of distant 
carriage wheels were heard. At the sound he started to his feet, 
and turned pale. ‘‘ What’s the matter, my love?” inquired Flora. 

“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing, darling, nothing; only I’m 
not quite myself this morning. ISlip on your hat and cloak, dearest, 
while I settle the bill.” So saying, he rang the bell, and Flora left 
the room to prepare for her departure. The doddering old landlady 
came creeping along like a snail, and snail-like departed to make 
out her bill. Meanwhile the sound of the approaching carriage- 
wheels got nearer. “ Gracious God!” he exclaimed, “ should it be 

? How long is this horrible old woman going to be making out 

her beastly bill? How long is Flora going to be? She might be 
getting herself up for presentation at court!” 

At last the bill came, and was paid— at last Flora had completed 
her hasty toilet. 

The sounds were getting nearer. The farmer was ready and 
waiting. A moment more, and — 

Leaving the house rapidly, and hurrying down toward the ferry, 
some three hundred yards distant, they stepped on board the boat. 
At that moment a carriage and four horses, in a “ lather of sweat,” 
galloped like mad round the corner of the hill immediately over- 
hanging the beach. Two men jumped out. The one roared, in a 

voice of thunder, “ Hold there! Come back, or by I’ll shoot 

the pair of you!” 

Flora sprung before her lover like a lioness defending her young, 
and called out: 

“ Shoot me first, then!” 

In his rage M’Allister fired, and would certainly have killed her, 
had not Deempster struck up his hand. He then called out to the 
ferryman, “Ho; you there, David Donaldson! You ken me; I’m 
Dan ’1 Deempster, of Strathmines. You see these?” and he flour- 
ished a handful of greasy one-pound notes. “They are yours if 
you put back and land those two.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and the ferryman remained irreso- 
lute. Then Curly produced a handful of sovereigns and forced 
them upon him, whispering: 

“ All yours now, and as much more when we land on the other 
side!” 

David hesitated no longer; he pocketed the gold, and sung out 
with a laugh, “ Heigh, Strathmines, a bird in the hand is worth twa 
in the bush: paper is guid, but gold is better!” 

“ Ay, mon,” replied Deempster; “but lead goes further than 
cither in a pinch like this! See that, noo!” As he spoke he fired, 


cuely: ak actoe’s stoey. 21 

and hit the side of the rowlock nearest to him, completely carrying 
it away. 

“ Now, David, my mannie,” he continued, “ be advised; for if 1 
fire again I shall put a bullet in your shoulder as sure as my name’s 
Dan’l Deempster.” There was an awkward pause, then the ferry- 
man replied, “ Say nae mair! say nae mair, Strathmines! Eneugh 
is as guid as a feast; I’m cornin’ back.” So saying, with a sudden 
and dexterous movement, he swung the boat round and headed her 
for the shore. He had reckoned, however, without Flora, who was 
sitting behind him in the stern. With a movement as sudden and 
as dexterous as his own, she plucked the fellow from his seat, down 
came his head athwart the gunwale, and there he lay, stunned and 
senseless. Unfortunately in the struggle one of the oars was un- 
shipped and fell overboard, where it drifted out of reach. Curly, 
who was a capital boatman, seized the remaining oar, and tried to 
scull out to sea. The ferry was only two or three miles wide. If 
wind and tide served, it was a mere nothing; but unfortunately the 
tide was going out, and the wind dead in his teeth. At first his 
skill and strength stood him in good stead. The prospect of the re- 
ward nerved his arm and gave him added power— on the one side, 
love, life, happiness; on the other, ah! he didn’t like to think of 
that! Flora encouraged him with sweet and tender words, while 
M’Allister raved like a maniac, and had it not been for Deempster, 
would most certainly have shot the young man, who presented a 
tempting mark as he stood at the stem sculling away, Dan’l, how- 
ever, merely said : — 

” It’s just sinful waste of powder and shot, to say nothing of mis- 
prision of manslaughter. Bide a wee! He’ll be glad to let her 
drift in by and by!” So saying, he unyoked a pair of horses, and 
desiring the postilions to follow with the coach, he and M’Allister 
rode leisurely along the side of the Frith, keeping pace with the 
boat. Despite all Curly’s efforts, although she drifted down toward 
the sea, it was all he could do to keep her from running ashore into 
the very arms of the enemy. Flora was for going out, upon the 
cbance of either landing at Dundee or of being picked up by some 
ship in the offing. All the strength was leaving his body, but all 
the courage remained strong in her heart. 

‘‘ Let us go out to sea, darling,” she said. ” We can only die, 
^md better death than life without you!” 

At length they were opposite a small fishing village. The fisher- 
men, who were mending their nets in front of their cottages, sprung 
to their feet, and stood horror-stricken at the sight ot the frail skiff 
and the two helpless creatures drifting out to destruction. 

A low, moaning sound came over the water; the boat trembled 
beneath them. Curly knew what that signified; so did the fisher- 
men ; so did Deempster. 

‘‘ AVhat does it mean?” M’Allister inquired. 

“It means,” replied Deempster, ” that if they are not ashore in 
ten minutes no power on earth can save them. STie’s game to go 
down— 1 can see it in her eyes; but that white-livered hound hasn’t 
the pluck to go through with it. They’ll be ashore in five miu- 
utes!” 

The fellow was right. Poor Curly “had not the*pluck ” to see 


22 


curly: ai^- actor’s story. 


the woman he loved dearer than his own life go down to death be- 
fore his eyes while he had the power to save her. He therefore 
gradually suffered the boat to drift ashore. 

The moment before they landed she said, “ Remember, I’m your 
wife, darling— your wife. Tell them that, and they dare not part 
us!” 

Now, of course Curly knew well enough that the statement he 
had made to the innkeeper, combined with certain corroborating cir- 
cumstances, would constitute them, according to Scottish law, really 
man and wife. But he loved her too well to suffer the shadow of 
shame to fall upon her. 

As the boat touched the beach a couple of fishermen held it fast, 
while a couple more carried out the poor ferryman, who was still 
senseless, and took him to the nearest cottage. Then Curly sprung 
forth, and, taking Flora in his arms, lifted her asnore. Taking off 
his hat, and bowing formally to M’Allisler, he said, “lam at your 
service, sir.” Meanwhile Deempster had arranged with Sandy 
M’Diarmid (the head man of the village) tor the use of his cottage 
during the forthcoming interview. M’Allister, keeping his hand 
upon his pistol, indicated by an expressive gesture that he wished 
the lovers to precede him. Curly gave his arm to Flora, and the 
two followed the Laird of Strathmines, being in their turn followed 
by M’Allister. 

Standing on the threshold of the cottage was a tall, weird-looking 
woman, with hair white as snow, and large, dark eyes, with an 
eerie, far-away look in them. Elspeth M’Diarmid (for it was 
Sandy’s wife) stooped a little, but when she encountered Deempster 
she straightened herself and stood erect, looking him full in the face, 
as she muttered, “ The evil eeni the evil een!” 

When she caught sight of Curly and Flora she exclaimed, “ Puir 
laddie! puir lassie!” and then, with a smile of rare sweetness, she 
said to Flora— 

“ Come ben, my bonnie dearie!” Flora took the old woman’s 
hand, and went into the cottage without a word. Curly was about 
to follow, when he was intercepted by Deempster, pistol in hand. 
Then M’Allister said, “ Dan’l, 1 wish to speak to my daughter 
alone. Mind this man doesn’t cross the threshold, and don’t lose 
sight of him until 1 am ready for him!” 

“ Trust me for that,” said Deempster, his hand upon his trigger. 
I'he night was now falling into darkness, and the villagers had dis- 
persed, leaving the rivals alone together. As Curly made anotner 
step toward the door Deempster presented his pistol, remarking 
with a grim sort of pleasantry, “Mr. Player-man, this pistol is 
loaded with slugs, and if you have any regard for your health you 
will keep clear of the muzzle!” 

Curly clinched his fist, and gnashed his teeth at his own im- 
potence. “ If 1 only had a weapon! If 1 only had a weapon!” he 
muttered, while he paced to and fro, and Deempster mounted guard 
at the gates of his Paradise. 


cukly: ait actor’s story. 


23 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WHITE FEATHER. 

Time wore on. 

Presently the chaise and pair drove up— the postilions alighted 
to take their orders trom Siiathmines. He gave them in a low tone 
of voice— Curly could not distinguish a word — he saw the men, 
however, yoke M’Allister’s horse in front of the other two, and he 
noted that they had saddled and bridled Deempster’s horse. Then 
they sat down and began to smoke their pipes. AVhat could it all 
mean? 

Half an hour later M’Allister appeared at the door, and spoke in 
an undertone to Deempster, who gave further orders to the postil- 
ions, and then, turning to his rival, said in a curt, insolent manner, 
“Hi! you sir, step this way, and look alive about it!” 

Curly paused a moment, as who should say, “ Am I a man, or a 
dog, to be thus spoken to? But after all, it is for her sake, for 
hers!” And so he entered the room. To his astonishment she was 
not there. The door closed after him with a bang, and he found 
himself entrapped. He was confronted on the one hand b^^ McAllis- 
ter, on the other by Deempster, both desperate men, with loaded 
pistols in their hands. He was a prisoner, alone, unarmed, defense- 
less! There was a moment’s pause— then M’Allister handed to 
Deempster a sheet of paper, on which a few lines were hastily 
scrawled. 

“Will it do?” he inquired. 

“Yes,” responded the other. 

“ Now, you sir,” said M’Allister, “ listen to what 1 am about to 
say, and don’t interrupt me. Fifty years ago if a fellow like you — ” 

“Fellow me no fellows, sir,” replied Curly, “1 am a Camp- 
bell.” , • 

“ Campbell be d d! They were aye a set of thieving caterans, 

the best of them, but they were men, not spangle-jacks, and I tell 
you that fifty years ago, had the best o’ your blood done to a 
M’Allister what you have done to me and mine this day, my for- 
bears would have given him Jedburgh law — they’d have hanged 
him first, and tried him after! You’re not worth swinging for, else 
I’d think no more of shooting you than wringing the neck of a muir 
fowl.” 

“You are Flora’s father, sir, and for her sake 1 endure these bit- 
ter words.” 

“ You’ll endure more, before I’ve done! Now, listen, if you’ve 
any regard for your life, answer me clearly and quickly, and above 
all truthfully. Yon demented girl swears that you are her husband, 
that 1 know to be a lie! But she has been in your charge two days 
and nights. Have you wronged her?” 

“ If any other man had asked me the question I think 1 should 
know how to answer him. You are her father, and I forgive you; 


24 


curly: ak actor's story. 


but, as God is my judge, she is as pure as when she left your roof 
two nights ago!’' 

“ And she is not your wife?” 

“ Would to Heaven she were!” 

” Good. Now read this paper.” 

Curly took up the paper, and read these cruel Words:— 

” These presents are to attest that Flora M’Allister is not my wife 
and 1 call God to witness that neither now nor hereafter will 1 seek 
to become her husband. 

“Donald Campbell. 

“Dudhope Ferry, May 12th, 18—.” 

“You have read?” said M’Allister. Curly assented in silence. 

“Now; your answer?” 

“ My answer is this,” said the young man, tearing the paper in 
pieces, and casting the fragments to his feet. 

“Just so,” said M’Allister. “ Dan’I, copy yon paper once 
more.” 

Strathmines locked the outer door, and putting the key in hie 
pocket, began to write. As he wrote, not a sound could be heard 
save the scribbling of the pen on the paper. 

While the old man locked the inner door Curly looked through 
the window. It was small — so small that there was no possibility' 
of escape that way. No human being appeared within sight or 
sound. Then he looked toward the fire-place. There lay the poker, 
a primitive and unromantic weapon, it is true; but if he could only 
rfeach it! Quickly as he moved toward the hearth-stone M’Allister 
was quicker still, with the pistol at his head. 

“ No, you don’t, my mannie,” said he, grimly. “Is the paper 
done, Dan’I?” 

“ It is,” replied the other. 

“ Read it aloud, then, that there may be no mistake about it!’' 
Deempster read it aloud. It was textually word for word with the 
document which Curly had destroyed. “ Now,” said M’Allister, 

“ there’s my watch,” and he placed it on the table. “ It’s now five- 
and-twenty minutes past four; if at half past you’ve not signed 
that paper, by the living God, I’ll chance this world and the next, 
and put the contents of this pistol into your head the next minute!”” 

The young man darted toward the door, but was iniercepted by 
Deempster, also pistol in hand. Poor Curly! he was anything but a 
hero, but a better or braver man might have felt daunted, placed 
between the pistols of these stalwart and desperate men. He loved 
Flora M’Allister better than anything in the world — better even 
than life. If by sacrificing his own life he could have saved hers, 

1 think he would have found courage to do so. But he reasoned 
that she was safe enough for the present; besides, while there was 
life there was hope. These and a thousand other thoughts passed 
through his mind during those five minutes. Five minutes, did I 
say? 1 should have said five ages of agony! 

“ Time’s up,” said M’Allister, cocking his pistol. 

“ One moment ” said Curly. “ 1 will sign this paper on two 
conditions.” 



AT THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE SHE DREW HERSELF UP DISDAINFULLY. 




curly: A]sr actor’s story. 


27 


]^ame them/’ said the old man sternly. 

“ First, that you will promise me not to coerce her into marrying 
this ” (indicating Deempster) “ or any other man.” 

M’Allister ruminated a moment, and said, “ 1 promise.” 

‘‘ Next — that youTl let me see her to say * Good-bye ’ — before you, 
if you desire it, but not before yonder man.” 

” Y’onder man’s ” eyes flashed fire, and Curly heard the click of 
iiis pistol, but the hate in his heart gave him courage, and he faced 
the enemy to his teeth. 

M’Allister — was he thinking, 1 wonder, that be had been young 
once himself? — interposed with: 

” That’ll do, Dan’l. Confound it! we can’t have it all our own 
way, and by our own way of having it too. The lad shall say 
‘ Good-bye ’ to her.” 

‘‘ Y’ou promise that 1 shall see her, then?” 

‘ ‘ 1 promise. N ow sign. ’ ’ 

” God help me!” exclaimed Curly. ” I’m signing away her life 
and my own with my heart’s blood.” And so he was, poor wretch! 

M’Allister took the paper, and turning to Deempster, said. 

Now, Dan’l— see the carriage ready.” 

Strathmines strode from the house, livid, but silent. M’Allister 
unlocked the inner door, and, going to the foot of the stairs, called 
Flora. 

In a moment’s time she was in the room— there was no fear about 
her. She went straight over to her lover, threw her arms round 
liim, and kissed him before her father’s face. That kiss never left 
the unhappy man’s lips till the day of his death. Afterward she 
remembered that he was cold as ice. At that moment, however, 
she merely thought that he was worn out with the strain of the voy- 
age. As she took his arm, and leaned her head upon his shoulder, 
the hot blood rushed from her heart to her glowing cheeks, while 
he stood pale as death, motionless as marble. 

Not a word had yet been spoken. At length her father handed her 
the paper. She read it, and quick as lightning, with a movement 
of repulsion as though she had been stung by an adder, she with- 
drew herself from Curly’s arm. „ 

” Did you— did you?” she inquired, looking at him. She might 
as well have spoken to the dead— the man was bereft of speech, 
paralyzed with grief and shame — he could not meet her eyes. Then 
she turned to her father, and said, 

‘‘ Is it true? Did he do this shameful thing?” 

The old man, overawed by her great grief, bowed his head, and 
averted his face in silence. She paused. It seemed as if the splen- 
dor of her beauty was gone— as if the luster had faded from her 
eyes, and she had in lhat moment grown old and gray. No trace 
of the old music remained as she said, with scarce a tremor in her 
voice, 

“How cold it has grown! Please, father, take me home!” 
And so she passed forth into the darkness. 

And he? Poor wretch! For a moment he seemed to lead a dual 
existence — his soul had left his body, and looked with loathing on 
the miserable thing it once inhabited. 

Hark! What’s that? 


28 


CUELY: AIS” actor’s story. 


The clatter of horses’ hoofs— the roll of earn' age- wheels! 

The sound brought him back to life. Like a madman he rushed 
from the house screaming, “Flora! Flora! My darling — my love 
— my life ! It was tor your sake— only listen — one word — one word !’^ 

He hejird— at least, he always thought to his dying day that he 
heard, her voice calling to him for help. 

He gained upon them. As he reached the corner of the hill, the 
moon burst forth from behind the clouds. A man on horseback 
intervened as the carriage passed out of sight. Deempster, for it 
was he, as he rose in the stirrups, exclaimed, 

“ I’ve been waiting for this ever since the night of the ball! Blast 
you! Take this — and this!” And he struck Curly twice across 
the face with the thong end of his heavy whip — almost blinding him, 
then, reversing his grip, with the butt end, which was of loaded 
buckthorn, he dealt him one tremendous blow on the head w'hich 
laid him on the ground. 

For a moment the Laird of Strathmines smiled upon the fallen 
man, then he growled: 

“ That’s a quittance in full, my bold play-actor, for all outstand- 
ing accounts ’twixt you and JDan’l Deempster!” 

With that he put spurs to his horse, and rode away in triumph, 
leaving his rival stunned, bleeding, senseless — all but dead! 


CHAPTER VI. 

AT BAY 

During the journey homeward Flora remained silent. It was in 
vain that her father tried to draw her into conversation. She re- 
mained obdurate, cold and hard as the granite of her native city. 

When they changed horses M’Allister got out, and left her to her- 
self and sorrow, while he mounted and rode the rest of the journey 
with Deempster, who, by this time, was savagely drunk. Decided- 
ly Dan’l was not pleasant company. Black Care sat behind him, 
and a fair head, dabbled in blood, when it was not before him, was 
beside him always — so the two men rode on in silence till they 
reached Aberdeen. 

Flora found Jeannie M’Pherson hovering ’twixt life and death. 
The name of the perpetrator of the outrage was darkly hinted 
amongst the servants, but no one dared to speak out. Of course. 
Flora had her own suspicions. 

“ It is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” and it was well for 
the girl that her young mistiess had leturned, or M’Allister would 
have found that his brutality had betrayed him to murder. Poor 
Jeannie’s sufferings somewhat diverted Flora’s mind from her own 
trouble. Her first duty now was to her faithful handmaiden, whom 
she nursed with assiduous tenderness. 

IS ext morning at daybreak, when the fishermen went out to cast 
their nets, they found Curly lying, bathed in blood, where he had 
fallen the night before. Save for some faint pulsation of the heart, 
he was to all appearance quite dead. M’Diarmid and three or four 
of the men carried him to Sandy’s collage, w'here the good wife ap* 


cukly: ak actor s story. 


29 


plied fomentations, and for hours and hours cnafed the frigid limbs 
till they slowly revived to life, but consciousness and speech had 
wholly left him. At last they succeeded in forcing a spoonful or 
two of whisky and milk down his throat, and thus they kept body 
and soul together for some days. 

At length David Donaldson had got the better of his fall, and 
was for returning to the Ferry. He had a kind heart, had honest 
Davie, and when he saw poor Curly in this wof ul plight, he forgave 
him his own crack on the head, which was a stinger, and remem- 
bered only that Curly had given him nine golden sovereigns. Then 
he volunteered to go to Dundee, and “ spring a guinea for a sur- 
geon. 

Next day he returned with Dr. Dixon, the famous theatrical 
physician, Vho recognized Curly instantly, despite his battered con- 
dition. 

“ Good God!” exclaimed the doctor, “ this is an awful business. 
Concussion of the brain— compound fracture! Who did it? It’s 
murder or manslaughter at the least! No accident here, but a foul 
blow. Who did it? D’ ye hear?” 

M’Diarmid replied, ‘‘De’ilo’ me kens, or ony o’ thae chaps, 
pointing to the group of fishermen. “We found the puir laddie 
lying at the foot o’ the great muckle hill, yestreen was a week 
past.” 

That was all the information Dixon could obtain. Doubtless 
M’Diarmid and Davie had their suspicions as to how the outrage 
had occurred, but they kept their own counsel for the present. 

Dixon wasted no time in words. He decided that his patient 
must be taken to Dundee at once. W ithout delay the poor fellow 
was carried down to the coach, and M’Diarmid and Rlspetn accom- 
panied Davie and the doctor, the goodwife tenderly nursing Curly’s 
head upon her lap all the way, and never quitting him till he was 
safely ensconced in the infirmary. The poor soul had a son of his 
age fighting the queen’s battles far away in India— so she kissed 
his fevered brow, and muttered, 

“Puir bairn! It’s my heart that’s sair for ye. Puir laddie! puir 
laddie! It’s wae for the mither that bare ye.” 

When M’Diarmid led her from the room she hissed in his ear, 
“ Sandy, ’twas yon muckle lang loon with the corbie’s beak and the 
evil een that did it. But he’ll never prosper with the lassie, nor 
with aught else.” 

Curly’s case was one that almost baffled the faculty, but Dr. Dixon 
was not to be beaten; he had made up his mind to save his patient, 
and save him he did at last. Perchance it had been better for the poor 
fellow had he died then and there. The good Samaritans at the 
infirmary nursed him by day, watched over him by night with un- 
ceasing tenderness and care, anticipating his every wish, his every 
look. 

When at length, after months of darkness and delirium, the light 
of reason began to dawn, there was general rejoicing throughout 
the place, for they had grown to love the poor creature, even as 
though he were their own kith and kin. Every morning, when Dr. 
Dixon came in, his patient’s face would ligUt up into the shadow 


30 


curly: A2s actors story. 


of a smile, and his eyes would follow his nurse with a kind of dumb, 
dog-like giatitude. Though speech was denied him he could dis- 
tinguish all that was said to him, and it was quite touching to see 
him gently take the hand of nurse or doctor, and kiss it with some 
of the old grace. 

When at length Jeannie M’Pherson recovered she could scarcely 
recognize her beautiful young mistress in the stern, gray woman to 
whom she owed her life. As soon as she was able to speak coherent- 
ly Flora insisted on the truth. When the girl told her, all Flora’s 
anger against M’Allister ripened into openly avowed indignation, 
-and the estrangement between father and child was complete. As 
for Deempster, she had always disliked him, now she positively 
loathed the sight of the man. He was a constant visitor, but when- 
ever he entered the room she left it — whenever he sat down to table 
she rose, and quitted it without a word. 

One day the two men had been drinking together, and M’Allister 
brougnt the other in to dinner. As soon as Flora saw him she rose 
and turned toward the door. 

“ Bide a wee. Flora,” said M’Allister. “ It’s time to put a stop 
to this nonsense. You may as well accustom yourself to Strath- 
mines’ company, because I’ve given my word that you are to be his 
wife.” 

” And Mr. Deempster?” she inquired, coldly. 

” Why, look here, Flora,” replied Dan’l. 

At the sound of his voice she drew herself up disdainfully. 

‘‘ Sir,” she said, ” 1 have already given my father an answer, but 
e\ridently he has not been frank with you. 1 shall never marry. If 
ray marriage could save the world and all that is in it from destruc- 
tion, you are the last man on earth that I could ever call husband. 
Gracious God!” she cried, bursting out, ” can this creature not see 
how 1 hate him? i loathe the very sound of his voice. His sight 
is poison to me? For you, sir,” she said, turning to her father, ” if 
ever you suffer this man to obtrude himself on me again, 1 quit your 
loot the next moment.” 

She then left the room. From that time forth she confined her- 
self to her own apartments; except for her faithful Jeannie, she 
was always alone. 

So, alter all their scheming, after all their violence, it had come 
to this: Three lives blighted, two hearts broken, and the Laird of 
Strathmines further ofl: than ever from the one object on which he 
had centered his hopes, in this world and the next. 


CHAPTER Vll. 

GOOD SAMARITANS. 

Six months and more had elapsed since Willie and Curly had 
parted. Jamieson thought it strange, after all Donald’s protesta- 
tions, that he had never once written, and the soft place in his heart 
grew sore. 

At length the time arrived for the return of the company to Aber- 
deen. 


31 


curly: Air ACTOR^S STORY. 

One day, taking a solitary ramble in the neighborhood of the 
Gail loch Head, the young tragedian encountered a lady and her 
maid driving in an open pony carriage. She looked at him, and 
bowed ; he bowed again as she passed out of sight. The face evoked 
an impression— not a recollection. Yes, he had seen a face some- 
where like that before. Could it be?- Pshaw! No. This woman 
was sterner and older— she was twenty years older— and yet, how 
the face haunted him! 

Next morning he found a letter on the breakfast-table. It was 
an official-looking document, written on blue paper. On the out- 
side page was printed in bold characters, “ Royal Infirmary, Dundee. 
The superscription was in a strange hand. Eagerly tearing open the 
envelope, he read these six words : 

“ Dear Willie,— Come to me. Curly.” 

Feeble and indistinct as were the characters, there was no mis- 
take about the writer. Without waiting for food or anything else 
Willie ran down to Johnston’s lodgings, showed him the letter, and 
asked leave of absence. The manager, who was not without just 
cause for complaint against Curly for “bolting” at a moment’s 
notice, and leaving him in the lurch, said: 

“ Go, my lad— go at once. There’s something wrong, depend 
on’t. Do you want any tin?” 

“ Well, I’m not all over money, sir, and 1 may want something 
when 1 get to Dundee.” 

“ Well — take ten pounds. Will that be enough?” 

“ Quite enough.” 

“ Stop. Should you need any more, send for it, and tell the 
young beggar that the old berth is open to him if he likes to come 
back. Good-bye, and good luck to you. Drop me a line as soon 
as you see how the land lies, and take a week’s leave of absence. 
I’ll play Macbeth to-night, and arrange the business for the rest of 
the week without you.” 

Next morning, by eleven o’clock, Jamieson was at the infirmary 
in Dundee. Dr. Dixon told him, as far as he knew all that had 
happened, then they went to the invalid’s room together. They 
found him sleeping tranquilly— but, on, so changed— so worn and 
wasted— the sight went to Willie’s heart. When poor Curly awoke 
he looked up, their eyes met, there was a convulsive movement about 
the mouth and the muscles of the Ihroat, then he gasped out the first 
articulate words he had uttered for months, “ Willie, dear old chap, 
1 knew you’d come.” With that, he put his wasted arms round 
the other’s neck, and burst out crying like a child. The doctor 
blew his nose till it resounded like a speaking-trumpet, and with- 
drew, leaving orders for the two young men to be left alone. 
Thanks to his influence, they slept in the same room, so that they 
were not separated night or day during his short visit. After that 
Curly’s recovery, though still slow, was certain. Jamieson was, of 
course, anxious to know what had really occurred since their part- 
ing, and how it was that the accident or outrage had happened. 
One day he broached the subject, but at the mere mention of Flora’s 
name the other fell into a paroxysm of grief, which was not only 
terrible to behold, but caused a relapse of so serious a character as 


m 


cuely: ai^- actor’s story. 


to be attended with great danger. That morning, when Dr. Dixon 
came, he tound his patient trembling:, convulsed, and speechless. 
The work ol months had been undone in an instant. 

“ What’s up?” he inquired. 

'When Jamieson explained, he gi unted, “ Oh, a woman, of course. 
1 might have known that; there always is a woman! That explains 
the rest. There is a man, then, doubtless — another man — and he it 
is who has smashed this poor lad’s skull. D’ye ken the murdering 
thief?” 

‘‘ 1 think 1 do,” replied Willie. If 1 were sure of it! If only 
I were sure ot it.” 

“Anyhow, you may be quite sure of one thing,” said Dixon. 

The blow that nearly bludgeoned your friend out of life came 
from a loaded weapon ot some sort.” 

“ If I live,’" said the other, “ I’ll find it out. 1 know the man — he 
may escape the law, but,” and he set his teeth, “ he shall not escape 
me. It may not be to-day, nor to-morrow, nor next week— but, 
sooner or later. I’ll have it out with him as sure as my name’s Willie 
Jamieson.” And so the matter dropped tor the present. 

The doctor gave Curly a composing draught and next day he 
began to mend again though slowly. 

At the end of the week Willie had to return to Aberdeen to wind 
up the season and to take his benefit. When he told Curly that he 
must go, he moaned piteously. 

” You’re not going to leave me so soon?” But he was reassured 
when Willie tolil him that he would return in a fortnight. 

When Jamieson got back to Aberdeen, he recalled the mysterious 
lady. He understood well enough now who she was. feo he went 
straight to M’Allister’s house, and asked to see Flora. He encount- 
ered the old man, who was characteristically insolent, and de- 
manded to know “ what the blazes he wanted with his daughter?” 
A little insolence went a long way with Jamieson, who could be 
dangerous when he was angered, and Mr. M’Allister concluded it 
was best to be civil, and even vouchsafed the information that his 
daughter had gone to Edinburgh on a visit to her aunt. Upon the 
subject uppermost in both men’s hearts they did not even touch. 
Jamieson depaited in an evil mood to seek Deempster’s house. Fort- 
unately for the Laird of Strathmines, he loo had gone to Edinburgh. 

At length it was time to return to Dundee tor the commencement 
of the season. 

Thanks to the consideration of the doctor and the house surgeon 
the rules and regulations 3f the infirmary were relaxed in favor of 
their patient, and all the members of the company— men, women, 
and children — were permitted to come and see him, bringing little 
presents of fiowers and the like. These visits, instead of fatiguing, 
brought him daily fresh breaths of life from the outer world, and he 
began to tally rapidly. 

One day Elspeth M’Diarmid and her husband came over to see 
how he was getting on. The old wom^an had brought him a hand- 
ful of primroses which she had plucked herself from the burnside. 

Although he bad no actual recollection ot her, some finer instinct, 
which took the place of memory, drew him toward her, and he said. 

Kiss me, mother.” As she did so, Elspeth’s heart stirred within 








.1 




^ • 




T 


• » 




fr.- . , . 


o’ t- ‘ 

o.<fc ’ 


'Ji?' 

T ” 




f;’v 


^t-"- , 

■•• t' 


T 


ia 


r « 

’ /r • ^ 




n% 




k 


■• •■:, ;... •'■*- y^-'' 

4J .V 




\ * 


V* '• 



* ♦ 

< • 


• H. . . • ^ ^ ‘ 

• _ ♦ 

■ ? A '* > ■ " ; ■ ' 

' '- V .,'/•* •• .... 




-- ■»-^'*’ /,' ■ 
*i . ,.' - '’ ‘ • .. 


\ 


- >. 




P 


.* - 


• .\^r. ■■ t. 

r • - 


( 


■*% * 


^ m ^ 

^ t* *.^.*^- •*.» i. 

- . • - ' # 


‘A‘ 


. 

-•J>, 





.. ' 

.V 


• «■ I 






y 

. » 


1 . •• 


/•<. 


f 4* 











cukly: A]sr actor’s story. 


35 


her at the thought of her own boy fighting in the wild Mahratta 
wars far away, and a tear fell on the lad's brow as she turned from 
him in silence. As she was leaving the infirmary with Sandy, whom 
should she encounter at the door but Jamieson, who had just re- 
turned from rehearsal. “ Sandy, Sandy I" the old woman said, or 
rather screamed. “Look at the laddie, the bonnie laddie! 1 ha'e 
seen him thrice by day and thrice by nicht, front to front wi’ yon 
muckle beast with the corbie’s beak, and the evil een. Yancein 
the kirkyard, yance in the glen, an’ yance in the granite street. 
Twice afoot, and yance a horseback — yance hand to hand — yance 
wi’ the bluidy brand i’ the air. 1 see them the noo — and it’s aye the 
same by day and nicht. Oh! Ay! Ay! Oh! I’ve dreed my 
weird!” And down she fell. Willie came up to help her, and when 
she had recovered which she did very soon, he inquired of the old 
man the meaning of this extraordinary scene. 

“ Why, you see, sir,” said Sandy, “ the guidwife has a wee bit 
second sight. It has been in the bluid of hei forbears for genera- 
tions, an’ she’s just mixed you up with yon lad wi’ the curly pow 
upstairs, an’ she aye mixes him wi’ our ain Donald, who’s in the 
Black Watch fichting out yon’er for the queen, God bless her!” 

Jamieson’s curiosity was aroused, so he told the old people that 
he was Curly’s friend and brother, coaxed them into his lodgings, 
got them to eat and drink, and then, in the fullness of their hearts, 
they told him all they knew of the business the other side of the 
water, and their suspicions about Deemp^ter. It seems that in s )me 
abnormal condition of trance or vision the old woman bad seen 
Strathmines strike the blow at Curly. At any rate her recognition 
of Willie, whom she had never seen before, was, to say the least of 
it, very strange, and her premonition of some coming encounter be- 
tween him and Deempster was stranger still. When they parted, 
her last words were, 

“ Beware the white horse and the whip— the whip with the thong 
at the tail, an’ the prongs o’ buckthorn at the head. Strike first, 
and strike hame, laddie!” 

That was the first and the last Willie saw of Elspeth M’Diarmid 
and her husband, but he had occasion to remember her words later 
on. 


CHAPTER Vni. 

PARTING OF ORESTES AND PYLADES. 

Curly’s recovery now was a mere question of time. One day 
Dr. Dixon said to Jamieson: 

“ 1 think your friend may leave the hospital in a week or so, but 
you must be very careful with him. Above all things keep him 
from drink. I fear he has a tendency that way, and any outburst 
of that description may prove fatal; certainly to his reason, probably 
to his life! Keep him from it, for God’s sake!” 

“ Wnth God’s help I’ll do my best,” said Willie. 

At the end of the week he took his poor friend to his lodgings, 
and lended him as if, indeed, he had been the little brother he had 
lost so long ago. As for Curly, he accompanied Willie daily to re- 


36 


cukly: an actor’s story. 

hearsal, went witli him at night to the theater, assisted him to dress, 
followed him to the wings, trotted about after him like a dog. 11 
was more beautiful to note the devotion of these men to each other 
—more beautiful and more touching even than the love of woman. 

Warned by former experience, Jamieson was careful never again 
to refer to Flora, and Curly never even mentioned her name, so 
henceforth the subject was tabooed between them. As to what 
passed through that tortured brain and wounded heart noiie*knevv 
but God and himself. Let us hope that God helped him to bear his 
burden. 

Dr. Dixon was unremitting in his attentions, but he was stern in 
his discipline, and wouldn’t permit his patient any stimulant beyond 
a pint of light claret and two or three whiffs of tobacco daily. Of 
course W illie had to fall into the same regimen to set a good ex- 
ample. Curly had never smoked before, and the nicotian weed 
soothed him exceedingly. At first he dreaded the idea of acting 
again, but as he continued to gain health and strength a desire grew 
upon him to play for Willie’s “ benefit.” He kept the notion to 
himself for some time; at last he took courage, and asked Dixon it 
he thought he might venture to act. This was exactly the health- 
ful stimulant that the doctor desired, and he at once gave permis- 
sion. Curly ran over the stage, a boy once more, caught Willie by 
both hands, and hugged him, as he exclaimed: 

” Look here, old man, I’ve got a surprise for you. The doctor 
says 1 may act for your benefit. Please may 1 play some little part 
—something like ‘ Charles, his friend’?” 

“ ‘ Charles, his friend,’ be hanged!” replied Willie. “No, you shall 
play Charles, my brother. Yv'e’ll do the * School for Scandal,’ eh, 
doctor? Do you think it will be too much for him?” 

“ Deuce a bit,” replied Dixon. 

Prom this moment Curly got better and better. 

At length the night of the benefit arrived. Willie’s own abundant 
popularity, the romantic interest surrounding Curly’s first appear- 
ance, and the known attachment of the two young fellows to each 
other, combined to make this night the event of the season. The 
house was full to overflowing, the musicians were crowded out by 
the pittites, the overture was played on the stage. After the first 
act the poor orchestra was actually sent up to the “ flies.” Then 
the box people were driven behind the scenes, and there they stood 
in the wings in sight of the audience. At length, in the last scene, 
the stage ilself was more than half- filled, as in the old Elizabethan 
times, with the diU of the place, and when lh(} tag was spoken, had 
it not been for the costumes, it would have been impossible to dis- 
tinguish the actors from the audience. Curly never acquitted him- 
self better. He had taken a new lease of life — his career was about 
to begin afresh. Willie, too, had distinguished himself admirably 
— indeed the comedy altogether was a great success. People crowded 
round the brothers, and began to congratulate tnem. 

This performance was destined to form an enoch in the lives ot 
the young actors. It so happened that that very night the managers 
of the Theater Royal, Drury Lane, and of the Theater Royal, Edin- 
burgh, were amongst the auditors. Next morning Curly received 
an offer for the ensuing season at Drury Lane, and Willie was en- 


curly; an actor’s story. 


37 


gaged as principal tragedian for the Theater Royal, Edinburgh. A 
month afterward they took leave Df their dear old manager with 
many protestations of gratitude tor past kindnesses, and went on 
their way to tueir respective engagements, traveling as far as Edin- 
burgh together. 

Before the coach started for London 'Willie thrust a handful of 
coin upon Curly. It was half the amount of the Dundee benefit. 
The latter objected, for he had still a few pounds left, but the other 
would take no denial, and so, with aching hearts and tearful eyes, 
Orestes and Py lades parted. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AULD REEKIE. 

To be principal tragedian in the metropolis of his native land was 
a great honor for Jamieson, and the little dingy theater which stood 
at the toot of the North Bridge, on the site now occupied by the 
General Post Office, appeared to his unsophisticated mind a palatial 
temple of the drama. When he reported himself to the manager 
that gentleman was dignified and even autocratic in demeanor. All 
he vouchsafed to say at tho first interview was: 

“ Kindly report yourself to the stage manager, sir, and he will in- 
troduce you to the greenroom.'’ The young man looked a little 
blank at this cool reception, but wisely remambering the adage, 
“When at Rome do as the Romans do,” he bowed himself out, 
and sought the stage-manager. He found that worthy intrenched 
at his table on the stage, surrounded by the prompter, the call boy, 
the scene painter, the carpenter, the property man, etc. The 
moment was not propitious for an introduction, so Willie bided his 
time, waiting in the prompt entrance. The quick eye of the pomp- 
ous official spotted him out, however, in a moment, and without 
ceremony he desired one of his satellites to inquire “What the 
stranger wanted?” “ The stranger ” did not want self-respect, and 
he iffiroduced himself. Mr. B. had been an officer in the army, 
and was a martinet. He rose, however, bowed stiffiy, and extend- 
ing two fingers, snorted, “ Glad to form your acquaintance, sir. 
This way, if you please.” So saying he led the way. 

As they approached, they heard the sound of pleasant voices and 
ripples of laughter, but when poor Willie and his escort entered the 
greenroom (so-called because there was nothing green in it, except 
occasionally some verdant youngster) it might have been a Quaker’s 
meeting-house. There were about twenty gentlemen, and ten or 
twelve ladies of all ages and complexions, all more or less stylish 

persons. Mr. B merely said, “ Ladies and gentlemen, permit 

me to introduce a gentleman who has come to join us — Mr. Jamie- 
son, from the Theater Royal, Dundee.” Everyone bowed coldly, 
none more coldly than the new-comer. The captain retired, and 
left Jamieson to make his way as best he could. Evidently the 
greenroom was not disposed to offer him a cordial welcome. 
Theaters are very conservative institutions, and the corps dramatiqtie 
regarded the stranger as an interloper, and a possible trespasser on 
“ vested interests. ” 


38 


curly: an actor’s story. 


1 here was a dead silence. At last one insolent young puppy, an 
incipient comedian who had been taking stock ot Jamieson through 
his eyeglass, superciliously remarked: 

“ Dundee! Ha! h’m! There is such a place somewhere. 1 be- 
lieve it is devoted entirely to the manulacture of marmalade.” 

“Not entirely,” replied Willie. ” They manufacture men there 
occasionally.” 

“ Men, sir?” echoed Young Hopeful. 

“ Yes, and very good men too,” continued Willie, with imper- 
turbable gravity; “but they don’t venture to compete with the 
metropolis ot the country in the manufacture ot puppies.” And, 
turning on his heel, he left the ro(»m. The roar of laughter which 
followed his exit told him that his first shot had struck home. 

After that the fast young men “let him severely alone,” and 
the other members of the company, finding he was as modest and 
unassuming as he could be pugnacious when the occasion warranted, 
began to thaw, became communicative, and finally received him 
with cordiality. 

Every day, and every night, he visited the greenroom for a week 
or ten days, but no sign of his name appeared in any of the casts. 
At last, up went “ The Miller and his Men,” and he found himself 
down for Grin doff. Then Master Willie did a very rude thing. 
“ Before all Israel ” he smashed the pane of glass in the cast case, 
took out the cast of “ The Miller and his Men,” tore it in pieces, 
put it in the fire, and stirred it up with the poker. 

Imagine if you can the consternation of the Court of 8t. Peters- 
burg upon beholding Ivan Ivanovitseh, Ensign in the Imperial 
Guard, walking into the awful presence of the Autocrat of ail the 
Bussias, and tearing up, under his very nose, the last Imperial 
Ukase. Then you may form some faint idea of the consternation 
of the Edinburgh greenroom at this act ot unparalleled audacity. 
At this moment the stage manager entered to put up the call tor 
the rehearsal of “ The Miller and his Men ” on the follow iug day. 
The gallant captain was as much astonished as the rest when 
Jamieson said, very quietly, “ lou can spare youiself the trouble 
of putting up that call, captain; 1 shall not be here. Make my 
compliments to Mr. M , and say 1 don’t play Grindoffs, oi melo- 

dramatic ruffians of that description. It was distinctly understood 
that 1 was to open in Hamlet, and 1 open in that part and no other. 
It 1 don’t hear from you before eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, 
I'm off to London by the mail. Good-evening, sir; good-evening, 
ladies and gentlemen.” The moment he left the room the place 
was all alive with eagerness and expectation. 

Old M ruled his people with a rod of iron. The means of 

communication with England were so few, and the journeys so ex- 
pensive, that the majority of the company had to grin and bear the 
managerial caprice, however unjust it might be. No one as yet had 
the pluck to “ bell the cat,” hence everybody regarded Willie as 
the champion of the company. 

The stage-manager pulled his white mustache. 

“ H’m! Mutiny!” he growlea; “ but 1 like the lad’s spirit, and 
begad, the old beggar shall have it hot!” So saying, he made his 


curly: an actor’s story. 39 

way to the managerial sanctum, where he gave iYillie’s message to 
tne autocrat, with various verbal embellishments. 

Old M merely scratched his ear with his pen, and said, 

“ Dear me! dear me! a remarkable young man! Do you think he 
means ilV” 

“ 1 don’t think anything about it, sir, I’m quite sure ot it.” 

” Dear me, dear me. AVhat time does the mail go to-morirow!” 

“ Twelve o’clock.” 

‘‘ Well, well; come to me in the morning at eleven. Meanwhile 
I’ll sleep on it.” 

Next day, at half-past eleven, Jamieson was at the coach-oflSce 
with his baggage. He waited until ten minutes to twelve; then he 
booked for London and paid nis fare. 

Twelve o’clock came. He took his seat on the box beside the 
driver, the guard blew his horn, the driver flourished his whip, and 
was about to start, when lol down Leith Walk came the captain, 
pufling and blowing like a grampus. Waving his hat and his hand- 
kerchief, he called out, ‘‘Stop! stop!” 

The driver pulled up, exclaiming ” What’s the row now?” 

“Nothing,” gasped the captain; “but you, sir? Mr. Jamieson, 
come down, I want you!” 

“ Too late, captain,” replied Willie. “ Drive on, Coachy.” 

“ But 1 tell you it’s all right!” roared the captain. 

“ Hamlet or nothing!” said Jamieson. 

“Oh! Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth~the whole lot of them; only, 
come down.” 

“ On your honor, sir?” 

“ On my honor as a gentleman I” 

“ All right!” and Willie sprung down like “ a two-year-old.” 
Seizing his carpet-bag, he spun over a half-crown (almost the last 
he had left) to the guard, and returned triumphantly to the theater, 
where the boys struck up “See the Conquering Hero Comes,” to 

the intense annoyance ot old M , who couldn’t avoid hearing 

this spontaneous outburst of musical mutiny. 

The following Monday Jamieson opened in “ Hamiet,” and was 
received with very great enthusiasm by a crowded house. A call 
before the curtain was then not so cheap an honor as it is now- 
adays, and when at the end ot the play he was called forward he 
was more than delighted. Just as he was about to make his exit a 
lady seated in the private box to his right threw him a laurel 
wreath, and disappeared as if by magic. Although he had barely 
time to catch a glimpse of her pale face and flashing eyes, he rec- 
ognized the mysterious lady ot the pony chaise at Aberdeen. As 
soon as he left the stage his quick eye detected a card which was 
attached by a piece of ribbon. On one side, these words were writ- 
ten in a bold, but feminine hand: — “You told me once should 1 
ever need a friend, 1 might rely on you. 1 need one now.” 

On the other side was engraved, 

“ Miss Flora M’Allister, 

Athol House.” 

Below was written, 

“ At home to-morrow from twelve to five.” 


40 


curly: ak actor’s story. 


CHAPTER X. 

ATHOL HOUSE. 

^ The morrow’s post brought J amieson a letter from Curly, describ- 
ing his impressions of London— of the theater, the company, etc. 
Tile general tone was elate and confident, and he wound up by stat- 
ing that his dehut was fixed for the following Monday, and that he 
was to open as Doricourt. 

At noon .1 amieson presented himself at Athol House— one of those 
wonderful old places twelve or fourteen stories high, the like of 
which is to be seen nowhere but in “ Auld Reekie.” Its historical 
memories went hack 1 don’t know how long; but the very room 
into which he was now shown had once been inhabited by the 
Regent Murray, afterward by Claverhouse, and the ‘ ‘ great Marquis 
himself.” 

It was now in semi-darkness— the blinds were all down. The 
atmosphere was so gloomy and depressing that he couldn’t bear it, 
so he pulled up the curtains and let in the blessed sunshine. Look- 
ing through the window, he contemplated the wonderful picture be- 
fore him. The valley smiling at his feet, where now the railway 
runs; to his left the Castle and the Castle Gardens; to his right 
Holyrood and Arthur’s Seat, Nearer stood the Calton Hill; a little 
to the left of that lay Leith, with the blue Firth beyond; right in 
front of him Prince’s Street and New Town. 

The Abbotsford Monument, which had only recently sprung into 
existence, stood forth conspicuous, as it glittered in the sunlight. 
It was a glorious panorama. There is no city in the world more 
beautiful than bonnie Edinburgh; but he had had ample time to 
explore and admire its beauties during the last fortnight, so presently 
he turned away to look at the room. Rare books lay on the table, 
a few choice pictures were on the walls, objects of art were scattered 
about in every direction. To his left, catching the light from the op- 
posite window, stood a painter’s easel, supporting a picture covered 
by an Indian shawl. On two or three stools were palettes, colors, 
brushes, and other implements of the studio. His curiosity was ex- 
cited by the covered picture, so he stepped forward, and removed 
the shawl. It dropped from his hands as he exclaimed, ” Curly!” 
The painting was not quite finished, but the resemblance was so 
life-like you almost expected to see poor Donald start from the can- 
vas — to hear him speak! While Willie stood lost in contemplation, 
a soft, low voice murmured, as if in response to his unspoken 
thoughts, ‘‘ Considering that it is only painted from memory, it is 
not a bad likeness, is it, Mr. Jamieson?” 

Turning round he saw Flora. He bowed, and, dexterously 
avoiding her profitered hand, coldly replied: 

‘‘You wished to see me, madam, and 1 am here.” 

There was a pause. You see they met under the shadow of a 
misunderstanding, and neither of them knew exactly how to begin. 
She, of course, deemed herself wronged. At one time she had made 



1 

I 


THE POHTRAIT 




cukly: actor’s story. 43 

up ner mind that she never would, never could, torgive Curly. 
But after all she was a woman. She was alone in the world now, 
for her father had been dead for some months. She did not even 
afiect to bewail him, though, in deference to the prejudices ot so- 
ciety, she wore mourning. She was now free to think and act for 
herself. If Curly could only explain the past, it — 

Of all her hopes and fears, of the terrible trial through which 
she and her lover had passed, Willie knew nothing. He only knew 
that his friend had been cruelly wronged, and then, as he imagined, 



FLORA, 


treacherously abandoned by the woman he loved. On the other 
hand, it must be remembered that it was she who had most reason 
to think herself deserted and betrayed. Besides, she was in total 
ignorance of what had occurred to Curly, or indeed what had b#"- 
come of him since their parting. She had seen Willie’s name an- 
nounced at the theater, and she felt convinced that if any man 
knew Curly's whereabouts Willie Jamieson was that man. She 
remembered, too, the promise of the latter on the night ot the 
elopement. Hence it occurred to her as an inspiration to invite 
him to come and see her. He had accepted her invitation, cer- 


44 curly: Aiq- actor’s story. 

tainly, but he might apparently as well have been in Aberdeen, so 
cold and distant did he seem. 

“Mr. Jamieson,” she said, “you once told me that should 1 
need a friend, 1 might rely on you.” 

“I did, but many things have happened since that night. You 
were then about to become the wife of the man whom you have 
siace so cruelly abandoned.” 

“ Stop, sir,” she said, “ one moment,” and she went rapidly to 
an escritoire at the other side of the room, and taking out the 
fatal paper with Curly’s signature, she continued, “ before you 
speak further, perhaps you had better read this.” 

Jamieson read it. Then he exclaimed — 

“My God! What does it all mean?” 

“ That is the question 1 ask myself — by day, on my bended 
knees, by night, on my sleepless pillow — but answer never comes. 
I thought possibly you might have been able to explain.” 

“ 1 know less. Miss M’Allister, than you know yourself. After 
you left Aberdeen together, I never even heard from him, until 
the day after i last saw j^ou. The next morning brought me a 
message from him. An hour later, 1 was on my way to Dundee, 
where 1 found bim yi the Infirmary— how, 1 have not the heart to 
tell you,” and he broke down utterly. 

It was astonishing how calm she remained till he had recovered 
himself, then he resumed, and told her everything which the reader 
knows already. It was her turn then. She wept one moment, and 
chafed the next, with clenched hands, and set teeth, she strode to 
and fro, as sue exclaimed — 

“The villain! the cowardly, dastardly villain. Oh! that 1 were 
a man for your sake, Daniel Deempster!” 

“ Don’t you waste your breath on that gentleman— leave him to 
me!” said Jamieson. “ Now if you please. Miss M’Allister, we are 
friends henceforth, so give me your hand.” She extended it 
frankly, and he kissed it reverently. 

“ Since the time 1 told you of,” he continued, “ your name has 
never passed between us, but 1 know the poor fellow loves you 
still, dearer than life.” 

“If he loved me, could he— could he have done this shameful 
thing? And to call God to witness it too! Oh! the coward! the 
coward!” 

“We must take human nature as we find it. God help him, if 
he is a coward, and God help me, for 1 can love him none th,e less. 
Do you love him less than 1 do?” 

“1 did love him once, more than all the world, but oh! Mr. 
Jamieson,” she exclaimed, “ the M’Allisters have held their own in 
flood and field since Scotland was a nation. And a coward! Oh! 
1 can’t bear it.” And she cast herself on the couch, and wept bit- 
terly. Then she got up and pointed to the picture. 

“ Look there,” she said, “ does that look like a coward?” 

“ No,” Willie replied, “ and 1 don’t believe he is a coward, but 
there are moments when the bravest man loses heart. Tell me one 
thing: were they not armed?” 

“Yes; they both had loaded pistols.” 

“ And of course he w^as unarmed, defenseless! Can’t you see?— 


cukly: an- actor’s story. 


45 


they would have slain him there and then, had he not signed that 
miserable paper. Besides, they worked upon his fears for you, and 
in a moment of weakness he yielded to their infamous threats.’^ 
“He ought not to have yielded— death, anything but dishonor. 
1 would have avenged him first, and bewailed him after. “ 

It was Willie’s turn to wait now. When she had softened down 
a little he showed her a letter he had received that morning. At the 
very sight of the well-known hand her heart leaped with joy; he 
was alive— he still loved her— all was forgotten, forgiven. 

Jamieson asked her permission to write to Curly to explain that 
he had seen her, but she begged him to leave her to take her own 
course, which she did, with results to be hereafter stated. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE FATAL ANNIVERSARY. 

Meanwhile Curly was busy with his rehearsals in town. At 
length came the night of his debut. All through the early portion 
of the play he impressed the audience most favorably, and each 
succeeding act confirmed the impression. The minuet in the 
Masquerade Scene was danced by him with such supple elegance that 
he completed his conquest of the capricious public. The ladies 
were in raptures with the new comedian, and even the men were 
unwillingly moved to admiration. The debutant's success was 
assured— a brilliant future lay before him. 

When he returned to his room to make his change for the last 
act, a large parcel lay upon his dressing-table. He motioned the 
dresser to unpack it. When he had finished changing he looked 
at the contents of the parcel. There was a quantity of fresh 
flowers, and a letter directed in the hand he knew so well. His 
heart stood still for a moment; then he took courage. There would 
be a few kind words, perhaps; something to give him heart of 
grace. He tore open the envelope, and stood for a moment like a 
man transformed to stone. 

Traced in characters ol fire he saw the fatal words: 

“ These presents are to attest that Flora M’Allister is not my wife; 
and 1 call God to witness that neither now nor hereafter will 1 seek 
to become her husband. Donald Campbell.” 

“ Dudhope Ferry, May 12, 18—.” 

Good God! It was May 12th that very day. Yes, twelve months 
to a day, almost to an hour; and now this accursed thing had come 
to remind him of his humiliation, his degradation, and of the 
rufiianly outrage of which he had been the victim 1 Grief, shame, 
rage, despair fified his heart and fired his brain, and with a wild cry 
the unfortunate man fell senseless to the ground. 

At that moment the manager, who had come round to congratu- 
late him, entered his dressing-room. Mr. C« took stock of the 

situation at once. “ Quick! to my room; bring a bottle of whisky 
—sharp’s the word!” said he to the dresser.” 


46 


curly: an actor’s story. 


Sharp was the word, and in a minute the dresser was back with 
the whisky. The manager in the interim had unloosen Curly’s 
cravat and bathed his forehead with eau de cologne. Then he 
administered a glass or two of neat whisky; the effect was as in- 
stantaneous as remarkable. Curly pulled himself together, said 
something about being overcome with heat and excitement, picked 
up the letter, put it into his pocket, accepted the manager’s con- 
gratulations, arranged a boutonniere from the flowers for his last 
scene, slipped on his dressing-gown, thought he would have an- 
other glass of whisky, and rushed on tne stage. 

It will be remembered that this is the situation in which Doricourt 
pretends to go mad. By this time Curly had got the audience in 
the ball of his hand, and could do just what he liked with them. 
Round followed round of applause, roar followed roar of laughter, 
and Curly laughed too— indeed, he laughed louder than any one. 
Evidently he was enjoying the performance quite as much as the 
spectators. 

When the scene was over he returned to his dressing-room, 
slipped on his coat, “slipped into’’ the whisky, and finished the 
bottle! Decidedly he was enjoying himself. Yes! he was having 
a fine high old time of it! 

Back he went 1o the prompt entrance— he had tied a handkerchief 
grotesquely over his head— and on he came for his last mad scene. 
He laughed louder than ever— the audience laughed, the actors 
laughed, everybody laughed — never had a mad scene been acted 
so naturally before. The house was in convulsions— so was Curly. 
He had just announced his intention of “ lunching on a steak of 
broiled hippopotamus before he went on a voyage of discovery to 
the moon,’’ when all at once he appeared to change his mind on the 
subject. Standing quite still, he glared into the stage-box to his 
right. It was empty— quite empty. There was no mistake about 
that. But Doricourt seemed to be under the impression that some 
one was there, for he began to apostrophize an imaginary object. 

“It wasn’t my fault, darling,” he'exclaimed. “You know I 
would have died for your sake; but 1 had no weapon. If 1 had! 
It 1 had! Don’t look at me like that, dear! See, see! the coach is 
at the door; they’re coming to take you away, but they sha’n’t. Take 
your hands from her, curse you! — take your hands from her! Nay, 

then ” And with a wild piercing scream that rang through 

every corridor and every avenue in the building the poor wretch 
leaped into the empty box, a raving madman! 

What signifies the play or the audience now? 

When Tragedy casts her sad and solemn shadow over the scene 
— when the poisoned bowl overflows and the keen dagger is uplifted 
to strike the fatal blow— Tomfool lays aside his cap and bells, and 
the graceless hussies. Farce and Comedy, retire, and hide their di- 
minished heads. So drop the curtain, Mr. Stage Manager, put out 
the lights, and send for the doctor! 


curly: an actor’s story. 


47 


CHAPTER Xll. 

OFF THE SCENT. 

It so happened on the night of Curly’s debut that there was pro- 
duced at Covent Garden Theater a new sensational drama, with a 
real water-fall, real elephants, and real horses. 

At the Haymarket there was a new comedy, and as at that time 
critics were scarce and penny papers were not in being, the mere 
dBut of a provincial comedian in an old comedy escaped notice, and 
therefore there was no public mention of the scene recorded in the 
last chapter. 

It remains to be explained why Flora sent the paper which had 
such disastrous results. Poor girl! She had meant it for a peace- 
offering, believing in her inmost heart that Curly would accept it 
as a release from a promise which she felt convinced had been as 
infamously extorted as it had been unwillingly given. She limed the 
arrival of the parcel to take place on the occasion of his opening in 
town, hoping, in the innocence of her heart, to lend additional sig- 
nificance to this token of her forgiveness. 

She ordered all the London papers, expecting to see some notice 
of her lover’s first appearance. There was not a line. She showed 
the papers to Jamieson, he was as disappointed as herself. 

Disappointment gave way to astonishment when they found Curly’s 
name withdrawn altogether from the advertisements. At this time 
the electric wire was not in existence. Day succeeded day, yet 
there was no recognition of her communication— no letter for Wil- 
lie! AYeeks — months— passed. He wrote again, and yet again, in 
vain. His letters came back from the Dead Letter Oflace. His own 
troubles were as nothing now compared to his anxiety for Curly and 
Flora. He could not bear to contemplate her sufferings. To-day 
she was in a fevei, to-moirowin an ague; one moment chafing with 
impatience, the next freezing with the apathy of despair. All at 
once it occurred to him to write direct to the manager of Drury 
Lane. The post in those days took a long time ’twixt London and 
Edinburgh, and a fortnight or more elapsed before he received a re- 
ply. It was sympathetic but brief, and related in as few words as 
possible the tragic story told in the last chapter. 

It appears that there were two or three eminent medical men in 
the theater, who came behind the scenes, and held a hurried con- 
sultation. There was no doubt as to Curly’s condition. It was 
dangerous to himself and others for him to remain at large. A cer- 
tificate to this effect was then and there prepared, and duly attested. 
Three or four men were detailed to mount guard over him in his 
dressing-room until the morrow. Early in the day the manager, 
with the accustomed generosity of his class, arranged with the pro- 
prietor of a famous private lunatic asylum at Kew to take charge of 
the poor creature for three months, paying the sum stipulated in ad- 
vance. 

At night-fall the keepers came to take him away. When they ar- 


48 


cuely: Ajq' actoe’s stoey. 


rived at Kew the doctor diagnosed tlie case, and had bis wretched 
patient removed to the dangerous ward, where after a time the rav- 
ings ot despair gave place to blank oblivion. 

Jamieson’s aitficulty was to break the matter to Flora, but there 
was no help for it. 

She bore the intelligence better than he expected— anything was 
better than silence aud uncertainty. She even found some shadow 
of consolation in the news. She knew, at any rate, that the silence 
of her lover was not occasioned by perfidy or neglect. When Willie 
had finished reading the manager’s letter she said abruptly: 

‘'1 am going to London to-morrow.” 

“Alone?” he inquired. 

“ No; Jeannie will accompany me.” 

“ If you could only wait a few days 1 might get leave of absence 
to go with you,” he said. 

“ You are very good,” she replied; “ but my place is by his side, 
lean not wait a day— an hour. My God! my God!” she cried^ 
“ why can’t 1 fiy straight to him at once.* There! there! 1 know I 
am only mad!” 

On the morrow Jamieson was at the coach oflSce to see her off. 
She looked more hopeful than she had done for many a day, and 
as the coach was about to start she even smiled, and said: 

“ Don’t look so sad, be sure 1 shall bring him back with me.’^ 

“ Heaven grant you may,” he replied, and so they parted. 

Lpon her arrival in town she took up her quarters at the Bedford 
Hotel. An hour afterward, accompanied by her faithful Jeannie, 
she was on her way to the asylum at Kew. Upon explaining her 
business the doctor was most affable, but regretted he could be of 
no service, her friend having left his charge a week ago. 

The news stunned her, she staggered, and must have fallen had 
not Jeannie caught her in her arms. The doctor assisted her to a 
seat, and forced a glass of wine upon her. Gradually she began to 
recover, then she overwhelmed him with questions. She could only, 
however, elicit that his patient had ceased to be violent, and that 
there was no occasion for further restraint, that he was merely mel- 
ancholy and moping, and that his health and appetite had re- 
turned. Then, referring to his note-book, he said: 

“Yes, my contract was only for three months, and that expired a 
fortnight ago. 1 gave a week’s grace, expecting to hear further 
from Mr. C. (the manager), and then, ot course, 1 had done -with 
the matter. Let me see, the patient left this establishment at nine 
o’clock in the morning, exactly eight days ago. Do 1 know where 
he went? Certainly not, he did not take me into his confidence. 
So sorry— will you excuse me? Good-morning.” 

Hopeless and despairing, Floia returned to town. Next day she 
called at Drury Lane, and endeavored to see Mr. C. Alas! he had 
left town, was in Paris, and would not be back until the winter. She 
had never been in London before, and oh, what a wilderness it is to 
be alone in ! 

Fortunately she had Jeannie with her, whose attachment was more 
devoted and profound than ever. Besides, she had money, and 
with money one can do much. She called the manageress of the 
hotel to her assistance. The old lady was very sympathetic, and 


SHE LAY IN THE LIGHT OF THE DAWNING DAY, DECKED AS IP FOR BURIAL. 









V . 


4 




*•-,/> y—r \ •:-^- '-•>-■ f-T 

. ■■ .■^**'^' ' L.' I ■■ 

f- • , ; .'' • >■ •■ • 


•/ 

7 - V 

. ./ -•■ •• 
•^' • • y 


J 


■• f 


V- .. 




<< 


\ 


•• 


•4. 



y .• 


■'/ 


•• • »■ . 


*/• ' « -v,, 

, •* i: . 

• ' - ^ 


".V 


T* 


\ ■ 

✓ ' 



. V '^'v- 



y 


■ s 


' 

^ ' 





; ^V 



\ 


1' 


' \ . 





f- 


I 


y - 







'yvv‘5 


t- 

• f 



* • % t _ 

^4 • ' ’ • •?• • . >*' , 

* y ' • .* 


r 




X 






1.^ 

f 












« 




/• 


« 


« 


y 



^ 7 


t 

> 




r ' 


.V 


• « 

1 


N" 


> 


: * 

4 




/ 


- I 




«r 


1*. 


<* 


« 


<• 






« 


I 





S* 


y 





. . . 





V 


4 



.f 

T - 



.'■:m 

.;, -’j 

■" ' ^ ±n 


1 ^ 




r^r • •;• 




*«' .-.r'' 

■ • ■ I • \ 

4 

. f ', ' 

■A ^ 


•'■ ’ 


■■ ■ . 


1 

iV'" 

-aVv 

I'L-'V: > • 



• \ 

I 



I 





.»Es«i. . ' J)'.<r' ■. 


> 



• 4 













51 


cukly: a-n actor’s story. 

suggested the emploj^ment of a detective. Flora assented, and in 
half an hour's time a bright, intelligent man, who looked more like 
a gentleman farmer than a policeman in plain clothes, presented 
himself. Upon explaining her business the detective took a hope- 
ful view of the subject, especially when carte llanehe was allowed 
him as to expenses. 

He commenced operations by going down to Kew, where he had 
a long interview with the doctor, from whom he could gain no in- 
formation beyond what Flora had already obtained. He, however, 
took notes of everything, and obtained a fairly accurate description 
of Curly’s personal appearance, the clothes he wore, etc., before he 
returned to town. All this he duly reported at the Bedford. 

Hay after day, however, was barren of results. As for Flora, she 
sat daily for hours and hours and watched and waited, then she 
could endure inactivity no longer. Up she would start, and call 
out: 

“ Come, Jeannie, lass, let’s be moving, or 1 shall go mad!” and 
the two forlorn women would tramp down the Strand, Fleet Street, 
and up Ludgate Hill and Cheapside, and so on to the Mansion 
House. Then down Holborn, through Middle Row, by St. Giles’s 
Church, into Oxford Street, then to Regent Street, Leicester Square, 
and St. Marlin’s Lane, always ending amongst the flowers in Cov- 
ent Garden — the sweet, fresli flowers which seemed to breathe some- 
thing of the odors of the far North, where she had first met him! 
As for food, she scarce looked at U. To be just to Jeannie, however, 
she conscientiously endeavored to make amends for the shortcom- 
ings of her mistress. At night to bed, but not to rest, not to sleep 
—her heart was far away, out in the cold with the poor outcast. 

Thus passed away a fortnight, and another, and yet another — 
still no sign. Then the detective thought of what he should have 
thought of before, and, indeed, it was strange the idea had not oc- 
curred either to her or to Willie, although she was in constant com- 
munication with him. Better late than never, so advertisements 
appeared daily in all the London newspapers. 

In vain, in vain! It was too late! 

Jeannie’s heart sunk within her as she saw the awful change 
which was taking place daily and hourly before her very eyes. 
Once or twice she ventured to hint the propriety of returning home, 
but was met with a curt and stern rebuff. 

At last it occurred to her that Jamieson had considerable influ- 
ence with her mistress, so she wrote him in her homely fashion, ac- 
quainting him with the state of affairs; and, to Flora’s astonish- 
ment, one morning he walked into her room at the hotel. 

‘‘ Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Jamieson! What has 
brought you here?” 

The change in her was so great that for a moment the young man 
was dazed. He recovered himself, however, rapidly, and replied, 
“ I’ve come to take you home.” 

His stronger nature asserted itself and would not be denied, so, 
after interviewing the detective, and arranging with him to com- 
municate with them in the event of his obtaining any information, 
they decided \o leave London on the morrow. Perhaps she was 
glad to have some one to lean upon, to be near some one who knew 


52 


cuely: actoe’s stoey. 


and loved the man she loved. Perhaps, too, she felt the shadow dark- 
ling— perhaps; who knows? 

As the mail rattled through Birmingham that night it passed 
within a stone’s throw of a pauper lunatic asylum, where a worn 
and wasted man lay, making one continual moan — 

“ Oh, my loved! My lost lovel If you only knew— if you only 
knew!” 

Could the inmates of that coach have heard that piteous prayer 
even then it might not have been too late! Alas! 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

WAITING ON THE OTHER SIDE. 

When they got back to Edinburgh Flora rallied a little, but she 
had a presentiment that the end was near, and she wished to close 
her eyes there where they had first seen the light, so after a rest of 
a few months, she prepared to return home. 

The season being over in Edinburgh Jamieson arranged to play a 
short engagement in Aberdeen, and they journeyed Korth together. 

Her relations having all espoused her father’s views on the sub- 
ject of her connection with Curly, a total estrangement had ensued 
'between them. 

Except tbe family doctor and Jeannie and Willie, she had not a 
friend in the world. It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that 
she urged the latter to occupy her father’s rooms during his visit. 
Considerations of decorum induced him to pause, but when Jeannie 
added her entreaties to those of her mistress, and when Dr. Miller 
assured him that it was absolutely necessary that some one in whom 
she could confide should be always near her, why he snapped his 
fingers at “ Mrs. Grundy,” and took up his abode at Gairloch House. 

From the first Flora did not deceive herself, so one day while 
Jamieson was at rehearsal she sent for Mr. M’ Crawley Gittins, the 
family solicitor, and made her will. This gentleman demurred in 
carrying out her instructions, but she was peremptory and there 
was nothing for it but to obey. The will was executed, and attested 
by the gardener and coachman. Then she gave the document to the 
doctor (whom she had constituted one of her trustees) for security. 
The lawyer did not look overpleased, and took his departure some- 
w^hat abruptly. 

At length Jamieson’s engagement was over, and he was enabled 
to devote more time and attention to the invalid. Every day about 
noon she usually tottered into the room, supported by Jeannie, then 
he would assist her to the sofa placed outside the drawing-room, in 
the garden overlooking the sea, where they would sit for hours to- 
gether reading or talking of her lost love. She never believed that 
he was dead. 

At length came the time when she could no longer leave her loom. 
Willie became more and more anxious, and never left the house. 
Every now and then Jeannie reported that the invalid was sleeping. 


cukly: actor’s story. 53 

or, perhaps, that she was reading Curly’s letters, or weeping over his 
portrait. 

As Jamieson’s anxiety increased he would lie awake half the night 
reading. 

One night, especially, he had a presentiment of evil, which kept 
him awake till daybreak. He read, or tried to read, far into the 
morning, until it was fair daylight— indeed, almost time for him to 
get up. At last he fell oft into a stupor of sleep. He hid barely 
slept half an hour when Jeannie came to his bedside and touched 
him on the shoulder. In a moment he was awake. “ Come,” she 
said. He looked at her pale face and knew what she meant. The 
time had come. He remembered long after that it was the twelfth 
of May — the second anniversary of the fatal day at the ferry. When 
he entered Flora’s chamber the large French windows were open 
wide, the sweet smell of the flowers, the fresh breath of the sea, the 
rippling of the waters washing the shore below at the foot of the 
garden, the bud, the leaf, the flower, and the young day leaping 
into life, the joyous carol of the lark ascending to the gates of 
Heaven, God’s glorious sunshine filling the room — all these made it 
seem as if death could never come whe^e all this busy beauteous life 
abounded. 

There she lay, in the light of the dawning day, decked as if for a 
bridal. 

She was clad in a white lace flowers still fresh with the 

morning dew were around her and about her, the grayness and the 
gloom had gone, the bloom of youth had returned to her cheeks, 
her eyes glistened with a humid, tender light— the sea breeze toyed 
softly with her beautiful hair as it fell in tangled masses on her 
shoulders. 

To the left of the bed stood Curly’s portrait, long since finished. 
The poor lad was attired in his cornet’s uniform — the dress he had 
worn the night when they first met at the ball. 

She was smiling upon the picture, and Jamieson thought that the 
picture was smiling upon her. 

Soft as his footfall fell, she heard it. Turning toward him, she 
spoke in a low, soft voice. The words and the melody dwelt in his 
memory as long as he lived. 

” Willie,” she said — she had never called him by that name be- 
fore — ” may I call you so?” 

The tears which he strove to keep back, choked him, and he could 
only bow his head in silence. She look his huge hand in her baby 
fingers, as she continued, 

“You were always his friend— always, and you have been very 
good to me. When all this is but a memory 1 hope you’ll meet 
some woman worthy of you, and if children should come to bless 
your home, call them after him — after him and — me.” Then she 
kissed his hand. 

After a pause, she inquired, ” Do you remember what day this 
is?” 

Again he bowed his head, while she continued in the same sweet, 
gentle voice, 

” This day, two years ago. they killed our young lives, but they 
could never kill our love—that will live when we are deadl Hush! 


54 curly: ak actor’s story. 

you are a man — a brave one. Don’t cry for me, dear — I am happy 
now. He will come back to you some day— I’m sure he will. Tell 
him 1 loved him always— tell him 1 have waited for him here as 
long as 1 could, now I shall wait tor him therel My poor Curly!’’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MAN TO MAN. 

The relations came down like a horde of locusts at the funeral. 
They were all Presbyterians and Flora was a Roman Catholic, so they 
left the cortege at the gate of the burial ground. Tne chief mourners 
were the doctor, Jeannie, and Willie. 

When they approached the grave, there stood beside it a gigantic 
man whom Willie instantly recognized from Elspeth M'Diarmid’s 
description. There wae no mistake about the “ corbie’s beak and 
the evil een,” now bloodshotten and inflamed. The very sight of 
this loathsome creature set Jamieson’s blood on fire, and he nad the 
greatest difficulty in restraining himself from taking the law into 
his own hands there and then. A huge white horse, a vicious- 
looking beast, with a tremendous Roman nose, stood tied up with- 
out the gate, champing fretfully at the bit. As soon as the coffin 
was lowered, with an impatient gesture Deempster turned away, 
leaped on the horse, gave him the spur, and was out of sight in a 
moment. 

“After all,” muttered Willie, between his teeth, “it is best it 
should be so. I can wait, 1 can wait!” 

On returning to Gairloch House after the funeral he and the doc- 
tor found the relatives in solemn conclave in the dining-room, and 
paying their respects to the “ funeral-baked meats.” 

The general buzz of conversation ceased as Jamieson entered. 
Without ceremony Dr. Miller proceeded to read the will. With the 
exception of certain legacies, such as five hundred pounds to the 
doctor’s daughter, five hundred pounds to the lawyer, two hundred 
a year to Jeannie, and various smaller sums to the servants, the 
whole of the estate, real and personal, moneys invested in stock, 
etc., amounting in the aggregate to something like twelve thousand 
pounds a year, was bequeathed to Jamieson in trust for Curly (if he 
should be alive), failing this Willie was to inherit everything abso- 
lutely, without let, hinderance, or control, being constituted residu- 
ary legatee and joint executor with Dr. Miller. 

When the will was read a dead silence ensued. 

Evidently the family circle had been already prepared for this 
intelligence, and their plan of action had been arranged. Every one 
turned round and looked at the lawyer, who rose, and clearing his 
throat with a glass of sherry, said: 

“ Ahem, my friends, 1 am already acquainted with your views, 
and it only remains for me to carry out my instructions. Ahem I 
Dr. Miller, 1 beg to inform you and yonder young man that my cli- 
ents here assembled will resist to the uttermost the carrying out of 
this will, and, in fact, legal proceedings have this day been com- 
menced, praying the court not to grant probate on the grounds of 


curly: actor’s story. 


55 


insanity on the part of the testatrix and undue influence on the part 
of the residuary legatee. Acting under advice, the seal of the Proc- 
urator-Fiscal has been placed upon all documents, valuables, etc., 
belonging to the estate, and as we are de facto in possession (which, 
as you are doubtless aware, is nine points of the law) on behalf of 
the next of kin, nothing remains for me but to request the so-called 
executors and the woman Jeannie M’Pherson to quit this house 
with as little delay as possible. As we do not wish to behave un- 
generously, we will allow you half an hour to clear out. We have 
left nothing to accident, and the police are here should it be found 
necessary to have recourse to them in aid of the process of eject- 
ment.” 

Here was a deadlock. The doctor and Jamieson took stock of 
the situation, found the enemy held every card except the will, and, 
desirous of avoiding scandal, left the house immediately without a 
word. Not so poor Jeannie, she gave the enemy a hot time of it, 
but in the end even she had to succumb to the rough logic of facts. 

Jamieson accompanied the doctor to his solicitor,. and gave in- 
structions for the defense of their rights under the will, and so com- 
menced the litigation in the famous case of “ Jamieson and Miller 
' 0 . M’Allister and.Others.” 

Fortunately tor Jeannie, the doctor, who was a widower, wanted 
a housekeeper to look after his daughter Maggie, and he installed 
Jeannie at once. 

Jamieson had an engagement offered him for Glasgow, and there 
was nothing to detain him further, except to ” have it out ” with 
Mr. Deempster. 

Strathmines is about six miles from Aberdeen, but that was noth- 
ing to Willie, so he walked over one fine morning after breakfast. 
On arriving at the lodge he inquired if the laird was about? The 
lodge-keeper replied, “He is gone out to have a wee bit rabbit 
shooting. Y’ou’ll find him in the glen yonder, about a mile and a 
bittock awa’.” 

A mile and a bittock means two good English miles or more. Still 
it was all in the day’s walk. At length Willie reached the glen. As 
he entered at one end Deempster appeared at the other, with his gun 
and his dog, a pretty black pointer. As the two men approached 
each other the dog came bounding forward, and licked Jamieson’s 
hand. The laird pulled himself up stiffly, and growled out, “ Now 
then, what do you want?” 

“ 1 want you, Dan’l Deempster. Do you know me?” 

“ Oh, ay, I ken you well enough. You’re the play-actor fel- 
low that was at the funeral the other day; but you’re no’ in the 
kirkyard the noo, you're trespassing on my 'grounds, so you’d better 
make yourself scarce.” 

“Not till 1 have settled my account with you.” 

“Me? Is the fellow mad?” 

‘ ‘ Take care that, you keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Deemp- 
ster, or it will be the worse for you. I’ve waited for this two years 
or more, but now the time has come.” 

“ Well, now that it has come, once more 1 ask, What do you 
want with me?” 


56 


curly: ak actor’s story. 


“1 want to tell you that when ynu gave Donald Campbell that 
foul blow, out below the hill by Dudhope Ferry, you murdered two 
lives, and because the law can take no cognizance of your crime 
you think you can escape with impunity!” 

“Impunity!” roared Deempster; “is it impunity to have that 
baby-faced blockhead, -with his great glittering eyes, his white face, 
and fair hair streaked with blood, standing by my bed and board by 
day and night! But there — Clear out. or I’ll riddle your hide with 

buckshot? You won’t? Then, by ” and with the word he lifted 

his gun, and let fly at AVillie. 

Fortunately his eye was quicker than the other’s hand,- and he 
cast himself full length on the grass as the charge flew harmlessly 
over him. The next instant he was at his would-be assassin’s 
throat, had snatched the rifle from him, smashed the stock and 
barrel over his knee, and hurled it a hundred paces away. 

The pointer stood still and trembled. 

Then the tragedian said, in a stern, quiet voice, “ 1 don’t wish to 
have blood on my soul — not even the blood of such a skunk as you 
are. But 1 am going to thrash you as Ions: as I can stand over you. 

So put up your hands, and don’t let me take you at a disadvan- 
tage.” 

“You take me at a disadvantage— you?” 

“ Don’t talk, but put up your hands, 1 tell you.” 

And the two men went at it hammer and tongs. Deempster had 
met his match for the first time in his life, and in a quarter of an 
hour he lay on his back, beaten within an inch of his life. 

The poor little pointer perceived “ a divided duty,” he came and 
snarled at the victor as if going to bite him, then apparently he al- 
tered his mind, and licked his hand. After that he went over to his 
master, and licked the beaten giant’s face. 

■Without another word Jamieson turned his back, and strode over 
to the lodge. When he got there he said to the woman, “ Your mas- 
ter has been badly beaten, and wants assistance. You will find him 
lying in the glen out yonder.” 

Then he walked back to Aberdeen, muttering, “ My poor friend 1 
That’s one slight instalment on your account anyhow!” 


CHAPTER XV. 

ONLY ATEAMP. 

Night was falling at the Gairloch Head when a conveyance drove 
up and stopped at the hall door. The driver got down, and began 
to bring forth sundry boxes and to load the cart with them. By 
and by a woman came out of the house and got into the wagon. 
Then they turned toward the city. Suddenly the horse came to a 
full stop. It was now quite dark, and the carter, who had a “ drap- 
pie in his ee,” endeavored to urge the animal onward, but in vain. 
The sagacious brute trembled violently, whinnied loudly, reared 
back on his haunches, and finally concluded not to budge another 
foot. Obviously there was nothing for it but for Duncan M’Tavish 
to get down and see what was the matter. In getting down he 


DEEMPSTER HAS MET HIS MATCH »<UR uNCK IN lUS LIFE 



‘I* 


V*--. 







'f - r- » ■- ■'• -•» ^ '-- ’--■- ■ c' ■ . 

;> ■ ■ ;-r V v:' : .^:"r - ' ,t,: ... ; . ; f:.' 

' . - > •?■ ' • ^ ^ .: .- -' : •' -■ 




T > 


N-r , 


■ r 

A. 


. r'-. 


> 


*. i'. 


-V ' 




•* « ■ 

t 




tf •'■ 

i ' * 

t ^ 

N_/' 


U V 
✓ 


VJ « 

\ i* * \ - 





i 



» • 


tt 

r 



•• ' 



\»- % 



L 


* / 




'< ■ •■ 

• • - ^ I 


« 

•/■ 



r 




V .. 

V ^ 


> 


#- 


\ 



>• ». •••;:■•. 

^’?V. % 


^ 




r 

1^* 



i, T 




** 


\ *• 

■ f~. 





' . t " ' 


\ 


t** - 



% 



K- 


4 









f 





• ^ ^ 


4 


t 

I 


I 




'/>■ 


>. 


V 


4 

> 





V * ^ ^ 

- • i ^ ^ 


. ■ . ' V- 

- *■ ^ ' 

P ^.**'^ ^ I . 

M I -‘j 4 'f ♦. » •^- 


\\ ^. • W -U: . 

^ A- > 4 ^ ' 

V a: • ^ 



- V-.; ‘ 


- 

V 





I 

I 

J 



' \ 


1. f 

L- 


jt. 








4- 







k 

\ 



.--'i ' ■ ■ 


' t 


1 



4 





V " 


± % 


^ ' . 




« • 


f 


• ‘A 








4^ 


•'» k ^ • •* 

-'■> 

' .'■ N *V ^ -■•-•. 

’ ' ■ ‘ * l’ xC . ' 

- » ■ - ' 




9 

♦ . V 


V* - ^ 




1 


( 




-V 


* % 


- ^ 


1 9 




* • 


• / 


» 


- ■ *' '. 





■•■- ' 

' '-.y- 



s. 




« 


/' • 


u 




X 



V ^ 



K «• 




i 





V 


\ 


•f ' 



> 


( 



r' 


•< 




•» 




r* 


t 




I • • t X 


> 


s 

i * ^ • 

^ ,- ' V 

'••> - ’ . 


K 


• ,x 


9 H, 


\ 

J^. 









r 







i 


>1 



n#. 





9 


I 




X 


I** 


i 


V 


-i*r 

' » 



4,i -1 


4 





> 


f 

* ^. 



.i 


•■*-• 


f 

• ^ 


« 


A 





4 , 


< 



r 


A 


r 






h 

< 4 C*-V 

- ^ 

‘ • 




59 


curly: an actor’s story. 

smashed his lantern, and the light went out. See, he couldn’t— 
feel, he did. In a moment he cg,lled out to the woman in the cart, 

“Eh, Jeannie! Here’s a mon ieeing a’ but deed. Na wonder 
Jock wouldna budge. He was aye a gey, ’cute beast. Come down 
and gi’e a bond, woman — we’ll na leave a Christen to dee while 
there’s a wee bit squeak for his life.” 

They litted the man into the cart, and Jeannie supported the poor 
creature’s head on her lap, little dreaming for whom she did that 
Christian office; but when the light fell on his pallid face at Doctor 
Miller’s door, and she saw who it was, all the blood in her heart 
stood still, but she didn’t come of a fainting race — besides, she had 
something else to do just then. 

“ What, what!” she exclaimed, “the mistress was aye richt! 
He isna dead after a’ — the puir, bonny laddie. Doctor, doctor! 
come butt thenoo!” she screamed like a madwoman. When she 
told Miller who the broken-down wayfarer was he instantly had 
poor Curly brought in, and put in the best bed in the house. Re- 
storatives were employed, but it was long before consciousness 
supervened. 

On his return from Strathmines Willie found a message from the 
doctor, requesting him to call immediately at Breadalbane Terrace. 
Jeannie came rushing to the door to meet him, crying bitterly, and 
exclaiming, “We hae fun’ him— we hae fun’ him! but, oh, puir 
laddie, how changed! Thank God, my bonny dearie didna live to 
see it! It would hae broken the heirt o’ her — as it has mine!” 

Before Willie had time to speak, she had urged him forward into 
an adjacent bedroom, where his poor friend lay shivering in a fitful^ 
fevered sleep. Great hollows were in his cheeks and beneath his 
closed eyes. A profusion of long, curly snow-white hair streamed 
over his brow and round his thin, worn neck. Good Heaven! 
Could it be possible that this faded wreck was all that was left of 
he once bright, winsome Curly? 

Long afterward Jamieson learned that as soon as Donald left the 
Qsylum at Kew the poor fellow set forth on foot for the North. 
Drenched with rain, and half starving, he fell down fainting in the 
streets of Birmingham. He was taken up by the police, and charged 
with being drunk. Fortunately, the inspector was an intelligent 
man, who immediately sent for a doctor, on whose certificate Curly 
was removed to the pauper lunatic asylum. 

After a sojourn of some months he was discharged. Thanks to 
his kind physician, he was assisted on by the mail as far as New- 
castle-on-Tyne. From thence the manager of the theater sent him 
by coach to Edinburgh. On inquiry there he found that Willie had 
gone to Aberdeen weeks before. Not a human being in his native 
city recognized in the shabby, broken-down, prematurely old man 
the former spruce cornet in the Midlothian Volunteers. He was 
almost glad that it was so, and he slunk out of Edinburgh as day- 
light fell, resuming his weary march northward; nor did he halt 
till he found a resting place in a friendly barn by the way-side, which 
sheltered him until daybreak. He had some two or three shillings 
still left, which kept him from absolute starvation. Fortunately the 
weather was tine — so by night he slept in barns, under hay-ricks, or, 


60 cuklt: ak actor’s story. 

indeed, wherever he could find shelter. At length he reached Aber- 
deen. When he inquired at the theater for Willie he was lold that 
he was staying at Gairloch House. 

“ Gairloch House!” he exclaimed. “That is where she lives. 
Oh, no! It can’t be — that’s impossible.” 

He resolved to write to Jamieson at once, but his impatience 
would not allow him to wait. He would go immediately. Then 
his pride stepped in — he did not wish her to see him thus changed 
and worn — thus ragged and wretched. There could be no harm 
anyhow in going near the place— in looking upon the spot which 
enshrined all he held most dear, so he walked toward the Gairloch 
Head. 

There stood the house and the garden, exactly as he had left them 
two years ago— nothing seemed changed except himself. Yes — she 
must be changed too, else she would not have sent him that cruel 
reminder of his weakness and degradation. Yet, perhaps, on the 
other hand, she meant to release him from the shameful compact 
into which he had been coerced— perhaps she — “ but alas!” he 



At this moment a tall, spare man left the house, and came rapidly 
ro the spot where Curly sat. The poor wretch could contain his 
patience no longer, so he accosted the stranger. 

“ 1 beg pardon, sir,” said he, “ but is Mr. Jamieson still staying 
at the house yonder?” 

“ Mr. Jamieson is not staying at the house,” replied Mr. M’Craw- 
ley Gittens, for it was he, “ nor has he stayed there since the day of 
the funeral?” 

“The funeral! What funeral? Whose funeral?” 

“ Miss Flora M’Allister’s.” 

“ Flora M’Allister!” 

“ Ay— she was buried three days ago.” And so the limb of the 
law passed on. 

Curly stood looking at his retreating figure till it faded altogether 
into the mist oi evening; then, without a sigh or sound, he dropped 
like a stone on the highway, where Duncan M’Tavish and Jeaunie 
M’Pherson found him lying some hours later. 


CHxlPTEH XVI. 
elspeth’s weird. 

As far as care and kindness could alleviate Curly’s sufferings 
they were alleviated, and gradually he came to himself. By degrees 
he resumed his old relations with Willie, and at last he was enabled 
to get about, leaning on the other’s strong arm. 

Several weeks elapsed, and Jamieson’s slender resources were 
running short, but fortunately the time for the commencement of 
his engagement at Glasgow was drawing near. 

Doctor Miller wished Cuily to stay with him, but he pleaded so 
piteously not to be left behind that Jamieson couldn’t find it in his 
heart to say him nay. So after arranging to send half his salary 


curly: an actor’s story. 


61 


ever}^ month toward the costs of the lawsuit, Willie decided to leave 
Aberdeen for Glasgow on the following day. His wardrobe had 
been stored at the theater, and at about twelve on the morning of 
his departure he was standing at the stage-door in Marischal Street, 
giving the necessary directions for his luggage to be forwarded, 
when he felt his arm clutched violently, and Curly, with a wild 
scream ejaculated: “Look! look! at Death on the pale horse!” 

Turning round, he saw Deempster riding down the street, his 
eyes bloodshot and his face aflame. Whether he came to seek 
Willie with murderous intent, or whether the devil got the better 
of him at the sight of the man who had beaten him, can never be 
known till the day of doom. Certain it is, however, that the mo- 
ment he saw the two young men, he put. spurs to his horse and rode 
furiously at Jamieson. With his heavy riding-whip he struck him 
a tremendous blow on the head, which brought him to his knee, 
and would most certainly have split his skull open had it not been 
for his tall cnimney-pot hat. Reversing his grip, and passing his 
hand like lightning through the thong, Deempster sent the heavy 
buckthorn head, with its cruel fangs, hurtling through the air. Had 
that blow reached its aim there would have been an end at once of 
Willie Jamieson, and consequently this story would never have been 
written. At that very moment, however, Curly, with something 
of his old alertness, at the imminent peril of his own life, sprung 
upon the bridle of the horse, and backed it. As the huge bruie 
reared in the air the tremendous impetus of the blow flung Deemp- 
ster forward, and he fell head foremost on the curb of the granite 
pavement, with a sound that was heard at the other end of the 
street. As he fell one foot remained inextricably entangled in the 
stirrup'iron, and the horse galloped madly round the corner to the 
right, dragging the body of the dead man after him. A.nd thus it 
came to pass that Curly was avenged, and that, by his own hand 
and deed, the Laird of Strathmines fulfilled Llspeth M’Diarmid’s 
weird ! 


CHAPTER XVII. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Jamieson’s engagement in Glasgow extended, on and ofi:, for 
some years, during which his modest income was mortgaged for 
law expenses, so that he was able to save little or nothing. Curly’s 
acting days were over; but he wrote a beautiful hand, and em- 
ployed himself in copying parts, MSS., etc., for the theater. Of 
course he didn’t make much by this; but he contributed some small 
portion toward the household expenses, always hoarding up a little 
treasure for an especial purpose. Year after year, as regularly as 
the 12th of May approached,' he disappeared. Generally he returned 
about a month afterward, and resumed his place without a word. 
Willie guessed pretty well where he had been; but they quite un- 
derstood each other, and no word ever passed between them on the 
subject. 

They grew older, and the world grew grayer and gloomier for 


62 


cukly: an actor’s story. 


both, and the case of “ Jamieson and Miller v. McAllister and 
others ’’ continued to impoverish the poor player. 

Mr. M ’Crawley Gittens, having exhausted every artifice that 
pettifogging and chicanery could suggest, was at length brought to 
bay, and the final hearing came on, which resulted in a verdict for 
the defendant. 

I'he very next day Jamieson gave notice of appeal. Then com- 
menced affidavits, interlocutories, and 1 don’t know what all. 
Anyhow the whole thing had to begin de now. Of course the law- 
yers, as usual, took their time over it. But there is one comfort, 
you can have a good deal ot law for a little money in Scotland — i,e., 
compared with the cost of the article in England. 

While this precious lawsuit dragged its slow length along, Jamie- 
son was acting in Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Sheffield, 
the York Circuit, etc. Wherever he went Curly accompanied him. 
At last engagements were difficult to obtain in England, so the 
friends returned to the Lanfl o’ Cakes. But, alas! “ a new gener- 
ation had arisen, which knew not Willie.” Younger men had 
stepped into his shoes, and poor Jamieson had to retire, and take a 
back seat, until he sunk to be, as we had seen him the night before, 
leading man at the Theater Royal, Paisley. 

And now comes the remarkable coincidence to which 1 have be- 
fore referred. 

As Pike got to this portion of his narrative we reached the sum- 
mit of a hill, at the bottom of which, some two miles oft, lay 
Stuart Town, through which we had to pass during almost the last 
stage of our journey. As we paused to contemplate the prospect, 
and indeed to take breath, for we were both a little blown, our at- 
tention was attraction to a solitary foot passenger, about three or 
four hundred yards in front, who came walking along briskly 
toward us. Despite his shabby clothes, he had the air and manner 
of a gentleman. His figure seemed wiry and elastic; his hair fell 
about his neck in a prolusion of snow-white silky curls; tne collar 
of his shirt was turned down over a frayed black silk handker- 
chief, revealing a singularly beautiful neck; he carried his head 
erect; his eyes seemed fixed on vacancy, and his whole manner was 
so engrossed and preoccupied that he scarcely observed us until 
within a stone’s throw, when, to my astonishment, Pike gave a 
long, low whistle as he exclaimed: 

“ Well, 1 never! Who’d have thought it? Talk o’ the de’il! 
An* how’s aw’ wi’ ye. Curly?” 

Mr. Campbell — for it was he— drew himself up for a moment, 
coldly; then, recovering himself, replied, with a pleasant smile: 

“ Wnat, Piije! Still on the road, old man? Don’t you begin to 
feel tired of it, and Wish it were all over? Sometimes I’m of 
Antony’s mood, after Actium, and feel disposed to cry — 

“ ‘ Unarm, Eros, the long day’s task is done.’ 

But no, no. 1 suppose I’ve not courage enough to take oft my own 
armor. And, after all, we’ve only got to wait a little longer for 
‘ the good time coming * at the end of the journey; and then, you 
know, as Cato puts it, ‘ My bane and antidote are both before me.’ 


cuely: ait actoe’s stoey. 63 

But ‘ "what a rogue and peasant slave am 1 Mo go wool-gathering 
thus! Who’s the boy?” 

Pike introduced me to Mr. Campbell as “ the juvenile hero of the 
company, the coming man, the future Romeo,” etc. 

The old gentleman said, with a sweet smile: 

” Excuse me, sir, old men will still be talking; it*s the privilege 
ot age. You are young and sanguine. Ah! 1 was young and 
sanguine once myself. 1 hope you will have better fortune than 
befel me. You have an open brow and a frank eye. You can 
look a man in the face; I’m sure you’re not afraid. It is 
a bad thing to be afraid. One moment of fear blighted the life 
©t a man I know as well as 1 know myself. Cleanliness, 
they say, is next to godliness, but manliness is above every- 
thing. If a man insults you, if he is as big as Goliath, don’t wait 
to talk, hit him first; hit him if your heart is quaking, if your 
nerves are shaking; hit him if he kills ^ou after! A brave man can 
only die but once; but the coward! Ah! God help the poor miser- 
able coward, for he dies every day, every hour he lives!” tie 
paused, and looked strangely round as he took oft his hat, passed 
his hand through his beautiful hair; then he stopped, took up a 
handful of snow, and rubbed it on his brow, mopped it dry, and 
said with a low desponding moan — 

” Oh, God! 1 could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself 
a king of infinite space, were it not that 1 have bad dreams.” 
Then he continued, “ 1 fear you will think me rather eccentric, and 
so 1 am; but 1 was not always thus, was 1, Pike? 1 was— what 
was 1? I’m sure 1 forget. Well, and how is Madame la Pike, and 
the young fishes? And the stock debt? And do we still delight 
the lieges with Sir Edward Mortimer, and Pizarro, and the Baillie, 
and Caleb Balderstone? And get glorious as of yore on the mount- 
ain dew, fresh from Glenlivat?” Then in an altered tone, and 
with a touch of sadness in his voice, “ Of all things else avoid that, 
young gentleman. Remember, ‘There’s death in the pot.' Only 
begin with that, and ‘ Facilis descensus Averni.’ All the rest is 
easy; slap, bang, down you go through the primrose path till you 
get to the abyss at the bottom.” 

At this moment Pike cut in with— “We saw Lang Willie last 
night at Paisley.” 

“ Did you,” responded the other; “ then you saw one for whom 

“ ‘ Nature might stand up 

And say to all the world — “ This was a man!” ’ ” 

After a moment’s pause he began to hum “ Annie Laurie ” half 
aloud and half to himself. At last Pike whispered him, then he 
changed altogether, and said — 

“ You’re a good fellow. Pike. What is it the Baillie says to Rob 
Roy? ‘ You’re a sort ot a kind of honest rogue,’ but as to money, 
‘ Keep your trash, Baillie; keep your trash.’ See, although we have 
got to our last Roberto, yet,” and he sent a bright new shilling spin- 
ning in the air and caught it deftly — “ what is it Cleopatra’s mailed 
Bacchus says? ‘ Yet have we a brain that nourishes our nerves,’ 
not, by the bye, that he could have had much brains to spare when 
he made such an ass of himself for the sake of that promiscuously 


64 


curly: ai?- actor’s story. 

amorous and decidedly dissolute old gypsy. Good-bye, good-bye; 
good luck to you at Kilmarnock. May your shadow never grow 
less; may your stock debt never increase; may you never share less 
than half a crown a night, and candles to boot. Ta, ta. "We 
pray Heaven to have you in its holy keeping!’ ” And so, throwing 
his head aloft, he walked rapidly down the hill, singing as he passed 
out ot sight the song of Autolycus — 

“ Jog on, ^og on, the footpath way, 

And merrily hent the stile a— 

A merry heart goes all the way; 

Your sad one tures in a mile a.” 

That was how 1 made Curly’s acquaintance; and, indeed, that was 
the first and last and only time 1 ever saw Donald Campbell until— 
but 1 must not anticipate. 

With reference to the remainder of our journey — 

“ As in a theater, the eyes of men. 

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage. 

Are idly bent on him that enters next. 

Thinking his prattle to be tedious;” 

even so would the reader regard our adventures at Kilmarnock as 
tedious and irrelevant, so 1 pass them by, and leave the record for 
another time and place. 

In the next chapter 1 will take up the thread of Curly’s and Wil- 
lie’s story as it came almost under my personal cognizance, many a 
long day after poor old Pike and 1 had parted company forever. 


CHAPTER XVIll. 

END OF THE JOURNEY. 

Nearly five years had elapsed since the day Curly and 1 met and 
parted on the queen’s highway. 

1 had emerged from the '‘crowd,” and was “starring ” at the 
Theater Royal, Glasgow, from whence 1 had to go to Aberdeen for 
six nights. 1 closed in Glasgow on Saturday, and had to open in 
Aberdeen on Monday. Railways were now, more or less, all over 
Scotland, but through some prejudice, derived from the Dark 
Ages, there was still no communication between Glasgow and 
Edinburgh on Sunday. Sorely exercised in my mind as to how 1 
was to get through in time to open at Aberdeen, 1 strolled down 
Argyle Street on Saturday morning toward the railway station, 
when 1 perceived in the crowd in the opposite direction, and o’er- 
topping every one around, a stately, white-bearded man, with the 
head and “ front of Jove himself.” 

Although 1 had never seen him since the night we met in Paisley 
1 could not be mistaken — it was “ Lang Willie.” 

For years 1 had pondered on the nobility, the beauty, the self- 
sacrifice of that manly nature— the misfortunes of his unhappy 
friend. I knew the prolonged struggles they had encountered with 
poverty, and 1 was really delighted at the thought that the prosper 
ity of the poor lad whom he had helped in adversity might enable 


curly: an- actor’s story. 


65 


me now, perhaps, to befriend him, so 1 made my way toward Mr. 
Jamieson and, sans ceremonie, reminded him of the circumstances 
of our slight acquaintance five years back. 

“ Good heavens,” he said, ‘‘ you don’t mean to say you are that 
slip ol a lad who was whh old Pike in Paisley five years ago? Well, 
1 should never have thought it.” Then he told me he had been to 
the theater, had seen my Hamlet, and he said some civil things 
about It. 

It was getting nigh dinner-time, and 1 persuaded him to come to 
the hotel and dine with me. After dinner the conversation turned 
on my journey to Aberdeen, nnd the difiiculty 1 anticipated in get- 
ting through to Edinburgh. To my astonishment and delight, he 
said, 

‘“^Well, this meeting is as fortunate as it is pleasant. Not an 
hour before 1 met you 1 received the welcome news that the final 
decision in the case of Jamieson and Miller v. M’Allister and others 
had been given in our favor. 1 am only awaiting a telegram to 
enable me to start for Aberdeen, and take possession of the estate 
at once. I’ll tell you what I'll do. I’ll call for you here at twelve 
o’clock to-night with a coach and pair, and we’ll drive to Edinburgh 
together, and catch the express tor Aberdeen in the morning.” 

At twelve o’clock he came according to promise. We caught the 
mail at Edinburgh, and arrived at Aberdeen at about twelve on 
ISunday night. Although we were fatigued, the journey had been 
a pleasant one for me. 

Before we parted for the night Mr. Jamieson said, “Of course 
you know my poor friend’s sad story. To-morrow is the anniversary 
of the great misfortune of his life. Every year he regularly disap- 
pears at this time for a month or more, and as year succeeds year 
he seems more and more broken down, andl’mgetting very anxious 
about him. For two years I have been out of an engagement, and 
we have had very hard times, and now that brighter days are in 
store, poor fellow, it would be hard if he could not share this good 
fortune, and I hope I am not selfish when I say it would be hard 
for me, too, to be left alone in my old age without a friend.” 

1 was up early, having a ten o’clock rehearsal. As I had only 
my scenes to run through in “ The Lady of Lyons, ’’and as both 
Pauline and the widow had played their parts with me before, 1 
had finished by twelve o’clock, when Jamieson called for me to ac- 
company him to the house of his co-executor. Dr. Miller. 

The two old friends met with eifusive congratulations as to the 
final result of the protracted lawsuit. It was quite touching to see 
the tearful delight of Jeannie M’Pherson at the sight of Willie, but 
more touching still it was to see the welcome accorded him by the 
doctor’s .only daughter, a lovely, fair-hired girl of eighteen. 1 
thought then, and 1 think still, that Maggie Miller is altogether the 
most charming, guileless, and beautiful creature I have ever seen 
in my life. Accident— sheer accident had led me to my fate. If 1 
hadn’t gone to Paisley with Pike I shouldn’t have known Willie 
Jamieson— perhaps I* should have known nothing about Curly, 
most certainly I should never have known Maggie Miller. Ah, my 
darling! I loved you from that moment, and — but I am becoming 


66 


curly: an actor’s story. 


personal—and the interest of this story centers in its unfortunate 
hero, not upon a mere fly on the wheel. 

Presently Willie inquired of the doctor if he had seen Curly, for 
he was due that very day. For years he had never failed to present 
himself at Breadalbane Terrace by noon on this sad anniversary. 
We waited until about two o’clock, then everybody got anxious. 
Although it was in the “ merrie month of May ” — by one of those 
strange freaks of the “ clerk of the weather,” by no means unusual 
in Scotland— snow had fallen heavily overnight. Jamieson feared 
that his poor friend might have been overtaken by the snow storm. 
At last, he could endure the suspense no longer, so he proposed to 
go out and see it they could obtain any news. The doctor told 
Maggie to slip on her hat and cloaii and accompany us. As we 
were leaving the house, Jeannie came into the hall, equipped for 
walking, and said: 

“ Doctor, let me gang, too, and show you the way. I ken where 
to 6nd the puir laddie. 1 ken weel eneuch— 1 saw him thrice 
yestreen.” 

“ Saw whom?” said the doctor; why did ye no tell us then, ye 
daft old gowk?” 

” Because 1 hoped my dream would na hold; but it’ll be ower 
true, I’m gey sure: but — there— step out, and see for yourselves.’^ 
So saying, she stepped rapidly before us. The doctor and WRiie 
walked side by side, talking to each other in anxious undertones; 
and my — 1 mean Miss Miller and 1 brought up the rear. 

It was a lovely da^; the sun shone brightly, melting the snow on 
the tree-tops which stood forth green and bright, the glowing beau- 
ties of the chestnut blossoms contrasting vividly with the green 
leaves and the sparkling white of the crisply frozen snow which lay 
upon the ground, and which as yet defied the sun. The birds were 
singing, a hare and half a dozen rabbits crossed the road befo^ us, 
and, turning round, confronted us fearlessly. A squirrel gamboled 
about in a tree over our heads; then we heard a squeaking noise, and 
the coneys scurried away, just in time to escape a hideous beast of 
a weasel, which slid across the road, and rapidly wriggled through 
the covert in full pursuit. 

At length we had reached a little mountain chapel on the hill-side. 
Jeannie led the way through the gate; we followed her rapidly. 

As we turned the corner to the left a man lay at full length amidst 
the snow upon the grave where Flora M’Allister lay sleeping. 

He was sleeping, too. His right arm was twined round (he slen- 
der cross at the head of the grave, his hands were clasped together, 
and his head lay in profile resting on his shoulder. His face was 
fair and beautiful as in his youth; his silver curls glittered in the 
sunshine, and formed an argentine glory round his white brow; his 
eyes were closed; a smile was on his lips. 

He had reached the end of the journey, where she was waiting 
for him. So, best. For him no more trouble now— no more weari- 
ness— no more lamentations — only rest I 


cuely: an- actoe’s stoey. 


67 


L'ENyOl. 

THE TWO PICTUKES. 

Six years and more have passed. 

"VVe liave moved from Abeideen to the neighborhood of Kichmond. 

It is a cool SQinmei evening. We are in a large drawing-room 
with French windows opening on a lawn, which slopes down to the 
river. The room is furnished and adorned with all that taste can 
suggest, and moderate wealth can supply. 

bur pictures are much admired, but it is needless to make an in- 
ventory of them; 1 only desire to call attention to two which stand 
out from the rest. They are companion portraits. The one is a 
handsome, fair-haired young man in a cornet’s uniform, the other is 
a beautiful dark-haired girl in white. They are placed exactly op- 
posite each other. Now 1 have noticed that, as a rule, portraits 
painted by men of geiiius, from Holbein to Millais downward (and 
the young lady is one of Millais’ best), have a peculiarity ~ihe eyes 
have the power to follow you all over the room wherever you go. 
These pictures of ours have a yet more remarkable peculiarity — 
their eyes are fixed only on each other, with a tenderness so touch- 
ing, so expressive, and so infinite, that at night, when the house- 
hold is at rest, and when (for 1 am always a late bird), 1 have been 
sitting reading my book, or studying my last new part, 1 have often 
sat and watched and wondered, and have almost expected to hear 
them speak to each other. This fancy has perhaps scarcely ever 
affected me so strongly as at this very moment. 

1 have just finished reading this story to a small family circle, 
consisting of tw^o venerable gentlemen and two women, one of them 
young and lair, the other grown old in loving, faithful servitude. 

For a little while we are silent. 

1 think we are all looking at the pictures— I’m sure 1 am. Is it a 
fantasy, or am 1 dreaming by daylight? The eyes have moved! 
Instead of looking as usual at each other, they are both looking 
straight at me! Yes, I could swear it! 1 — 

Hark! Isn’t that a peal of childish joyous laughter? Yes, and 
see! Two youngsters with fair faces, bright eyes, sunny hair, and 
sturdy legs (inherited from their father) fill the air with life and 
motion as they come bounding into the room from the lawn. No 
two children of my acquaintance are so spoiled and petted as this 
young lady and gentleman. Their present appearance is most inop- 
portune, hence mamma induces them for a moment to confine their 
attentions to a dish of fresh strawberries smothered in cream. But 
the spell is broken — the bairns have brought us back to earth. 

Then one dear old man wakes up and says, 

“ The story is o’er true. Jack, but you have made one of the 
characters too like King Arthur, and you’ve not done justice to the 
others.” 

Little pitchers have long ears, and our little listeners, having pol- 


68 


cukly: ak actor’s story. 


islied off their strawberries, cream and all, demand to know Who 
is King: Arthur?” 

The other old gentleman replies, 

“ Oh, he’s the King of Kingdom Come.” 

The youngsters return to the charge with. 

Oh, that’ll no do, grandpa. Kingdom Come is in the clouds. 

“Just so, my bonny bairns,” replies the doctor, “ and Arthur is 
the great King of Cloudland, bat he’s coming back to airth to make 
the dark licht and the wrang richt some day.” 

Although this answer poses the children, it doesn't seem to satisfy 
them, and they clamor to know, 

“Who are the others?” 

Mamma replies to the sir! in her soft sweet voice, 

“ Oh, one was a beautiful lady, whom you are called after. 
Flora. ’ ’ 

Then Grandpa Willie, patting the boy’s golden curls, says ten- 
derly and gravely, 

“ And the other, my mannie, the other was a friend, a very near 
and dear friend of mine, and a namesake of yours, my little Curly.” 


THE END. 


MY POOR WIFE 


CHAPTER 1 

** Don’t, Paul— don’t stare at me like that!” cried my wife, lean- 
ing forward on her chair and laying her small hot palm across my 
eyes, with a gesture half scared, half petulant, that irritated me 
vaguely. “ 1 — 1 don’t like it, dear.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Helen,” 1 responded somewhat huffily, 
drawing back. “ 1 really was not aware you objecteed so pointedly 
to my looking at you.” 

‘‘ I don’t— 1 don’t!” she broke in eagerly. “ How could you 
imagine such a thing? It was the expression of your face, Paul, 
that took me aback for the moment, when 1 turned my head and 
found you sitting there watching me with such a critical, anxious, 
searching sort ot look, almost as it you— you — ” 

She stopped short, panting a little, and, taking my hand, began 
stroking ]t timidly in her own. 

‘‘As if 1 what, sweetheart?” 1 asked, appeased by the caressing 
touch. 

** As if you saw something in me you could not quite make out, 
and did not like at all — at all! But 1 was mistaken in that, wasn’t 
1, Paul?” 

Then, after a moment’s pause, as 1 did not reply — 

‘‘ Sure it was only a foolish fancy on my part! Say it was only 
that — ah, say it was only that, love!” she whispered, in the soft 
drawling brogue 1 was learning to like. 

‘‘ Well, dear,” I answered slowly, “ as you press me so, 1 must 
admit 1 was a little surprised, after leaving you on the lawn romp- 
ing with the dogs in the very ecstasy of high spirits, declaring that 
even the twenty-first of June was too short a day to be happy in, to 
find you half an hour later sitting here alone, to all appearance a 
prey to the profoundest melancholy, your eyes perfect wells of de- 
spair, looking as if the burden of existence was too heavy to be 
borne another summer’s day.” 

‘‘It was heavy — so heavy! You are right. 1 could not have 
borne it much longer. For the last twenty minutes 1—1 have been 
your widow, Paul.” 

‘‘ Oh,” 1 said, with a feeling ot unaccountable relief, stroking her 
tumbled silky hair, ‘‘ 1 see! You were my widow, madam— a very 
fiattering and satisfactory explanation of your appearance indeed ! 
But, dear, don’t you think, all circumstances considered, it is rather 
premature for either of us to don the weeds even in spirit yet?” 

She was nineteen, as fresh and as hardy as the mountain heather 

( 69 ) 


70 


MY POOR WIFE. 


she had lived among all her life. 1 was twenty-five, stood six feet 
one in my stockings, and had not known an hour’s ill ness since 1 had 
the measles many years before. 

“ That was not the kind of widowhood 1 meant/’ Helen said, 
looking at me with a touch^of pathetic reproach in her strange eyes. 
“ Your death, your mere bodily extinction, Paul, would not grieve 
me for long; 1 should cease to mourn you soon enough.” 

“Mrs. Dennys,” 1 exclaimed, in mock indignation, “explain 
yourself, please! You surely would give me the conventional year 
of crape at the least?” 

“ No, 1 wouldn’t— not a year, not a week, not a day, dear, for I 
would die the same moment you did. Do you think 1 could live 
and you dead, husband?” 

“ Ynd yet you say you were my widow for full twenty minutes, 
true daughter of Erin?” 

“ That was because 1 had lost you in a way that severed us in life 
as well as in death.” 

“ Lost me in a way that severed us in life as well as in death? 
This is dreadful weather for conundrums! I give it up!” 1 re- 
sponded languidly. 

“ i — 1 was widowed, Paul, because 1 had lost your love — because 
you cared for another woman more than for me,” slie returned, in 
a low voice, looking at me with eyes full of tragic denunciation, as 
Kebecca might have looked at Ivanhoe, as poor La Valliere at Louis 
when she bade him her last good-bye outside the convent gates. 

1 laughed a little too boisterously, 1 felt, and drew her to my side. 

“ To be sure, to be sure,” 1 assented, volubly, “ 1 never 
Ihougbt ot that solution! How long is it since 1 first learned 
to care for you, ma belle? That day you and 1 slipped down 
the mountain-side through the yellow broom? let me see- 
seven, eight, why, nearly nine moaths ago? A long spell of con- 
stancy — almost time 1 should be wearying for another love, isn’t 
it? Some men, you know, wmuld like a change of wife with every 
change of coat; but as 1 happen to be of rather conservative kidney, 
1 think 1 ought to be able to wear one wife to three coats at the 
least, and 1 believe 1 courted you in the very cloth your fingers are 
caressing now. It’s getting a bit shabby, to be sure; but — ” 

“Y'ou may treat my words lightly,” she interrupted, leaning 
over me with half-closed eyes, a bright pink spot burning on her 
cheeks, “ 1 still stick to my opinion. Something tells me 1 shall lose 
you, as 1 say, some day!” 

“ Feed your melancholy on the fancy,” 1 retorted, with peevish 
uneasiness, feeling somehow that 1 had said too much, “if it 
pleases you. 1 wonder if your morbid eyes of prophecy sees any 
chance of my losing you as you are to lose me?” 

She seemed at first not to understand, then answered quickly: 

“ You lose me? Oh, no, no! Whatever happens, no matter how 
bitterly you may make me suffer, you could n^t lose me that way.” 

“ Am 1 to thank the gods, 1 wonder! What, Helen! Through 
treachery, desertion, indifferenee, brutality even, you will still cling 
to me like a limpet— eh? Are you sure, quite sure there is no other 
way but commonplace dissolution through which 1 can shake you 
off? Think, wife, think!” 1 retorted, banteringly, when, to my 


MY POOR WIPE. 


71 


surprise and alarm, the look of scared, almost agonized, melancholy 
stole over her dark winsome face again, her arms tightened convul- 
sively round my neck, her burning lips were pressed close to my ear, 
as she gasped out — 

“You know— you know — you — you have guessed how you can 
lose me, then? I— 1 feared you would — soon— soon. Oh, they ought 
to have told you in time! It was wrong— wrong. 1 tried to tell 
you often, but the words wouldn’t come. I — 1 am not at all to 
blame. Oh, Paul, Paul, my dear, if you had not taught me to love 
you so well— 1—1— “ 

Thoroughly startled 1 sprung to my feet roughly lifting her from 
the floor whither she had sunk, and held her firmly before me. 

“ Helen,” 1 cried, “ do you know what you are saying? What 
— what is the matter with you? This is the way you went on that 
day, at Lucerne, shortly after we were married; what do you mean? 
1 — 1 insist on an explanation! Speak out at once— 1 tell you at 
once!” 

She looked at me with gleaming eyes, and utterly colorless face, 
her lips moving, but no sound coming. 

“ What is it?” I repeated, my wralh rising, horrible suspicion 
blackening my mind. “ How have jmu deceived me? What have 
you done that 1-1 should have been told of befoie 1 married you? 
Helen, speak, or by Heaven, I’ll — ” 

“ 1 have done — nothing,” she answered, standing straight before 
me, not the least sign of fear in her face. “You may kill me if 
you like, 1 sha’n’t mind much; but 1 have done no harm, you 
should know that well. One day of my life was as dull, innocent, 
uneventful as another until 1 met you.” 

“ Then what do you mean by these hints and wild words? Why 
— why do you thus torture, and try to raise a demon in me, little 
one?” 1 asked, very much ashamed of my brutal outburst. “ Tell 
me, Helen?” 

“ 1 don’t know — 1 don’t know,” she replied, bursting into tears 
and laying her white face on my shoulder. “ 1 mean— nothing-^ 
nothing. What should 1 mean? 1 — 1 can’t help it, 1 suppose. Ob, 
pity me, pity me and bear with me if you can, dear boy! It’s— it’s 
not all my fault. Yly poor mother was like that before 1—1 was 
born.” 

“Your mother, dear?” I asked presently, when she was quite 
herself again, and apparently as much ashamed of her outburst as I 
was of mine. “ 1 never heard you speak of hei before. Do you 
remember her at all?” 

“No; she died when 1 was a baby; but 1 often heard Molly 
speak of her,” she answered quickly. 

“ And your father?” 

“ My— my father?” 

“ Yes, did you not know him?” 

After a slight pause, she said: 

“ No, 1 did not know him. 1 believe he died even before her. 
He was an Englishman, and they knew very little of him at home. 
Granny did not like him, 1 believe. Paul, let me sit up; Miss btop- 
ford is coming up the avenue.” 


72 


MY POOE WIFE. 


1 withdrew my arm quickly, and, moving into the shade behind 
her chair, said as carelessly as 1 could: 

“ So she is. Y"ou and Edie seem to be striking up a powerful 
friendship, Helen; she was here yesterday afternoon, and on Tuesday 
morning also; wasn’t she?” 

‘‘ Yes; don’t you like her coming?” 

Ot course 1 like it. 1 don’t think you could have a pleasanter 
companion than Edith, or one who — ” 

” Could civilize me more eiiectually. 1 quite agree with you; 
Edith is doing her best to tone me down, Paul; 1 hope she may 
succeed. How pretty she is!” sighed Helen, as her visitor passed the 
window where we were sitting. ” 1 think she looks fairer in blue 
than in any other color, Paul. I often wonder how you escaped 
falling in love with that girl.” 

1 shrugged my shoulders vaguely. 

” Y^ou have known her since she was a child, haven’t you?” she 
pursued, as 1 made no reply. 

” Yes. During my sister’s life time she almost lived with us. She 
and poor Lily had the same governess, studied together — all that, 
you know.” 

‘‘ And one seldom falls in love with a person one has known all 
one’s life — looked upon as half a sister, you mean, Paul?” 

‘‘ 1 suppose not.” 

” And yet your namesake, long ago, Paul, gives the lie to that 
theory.” 

” My namesake?” 

” Y’’es; the Paul who loved Virginia.” 

“Oh! He was an unusual specimen of tropical produce; be- 
sides, it’s not fair to quote him as — ” 

“Hush! Here she is!” 

Greetings of the new-comer over, 1 retired to a distant window, 
and took up the “Field;” but my eyes wandered from the close, 
cramped print to the heads of the two girls bending over their work, 
and thought what a charming genre picture they made in the 
chastened golden light, and how effectively my wife's dark tumbled 
locks threw out the smooth coronet of burnisUed gold that crowned 
Edith’s stately head. 

She was a most beautiful woman— tall, fair, with soft blue eyes 
heavily lashed, and a faultless profile. Never before had I seen her 
look so attractive as she did on that evening while she directed 
Helen’s little clumsy brown hand across the square of oatmeal cloth 
on which such wonderful birds, butterflies, and flowering vegeta- 
tion were to blossom into life. Her dress, ot a light blue stuff, 
trimmed with delicate lace, fitted her exquisitely, and there was a 
suggestion ot graceful poetical perfection about her general appear- 
ance, her every movement, that was most soothing to the senses 
that lazy summer day. 1 felt as if I could have watched her with 
unsatiated pleasure for hours at a stretch — “a daughter of the 
gods, divinely tall and most divinely fair ” — while Helen my wife 
was a most distinct child of earth, small, dark-haired, dark-eyed, 
with unformed babyish features, and a skin which, though pure 
and healthy, lacked the delicate peach-bloom ot the other. VYas 
she ordinarily pretty or almost plain? 1 still asked myself that 


MY POOR WIFE. 


73 


question after nine months of matrimony, and could arrive at no 
satisfactory solution. For Helen \vas seldom the same, either in 
mind, manner, or looks, two hours together. 

One hour she would look, even in the most partial eyes, dull, 
commonplace, hopelessly unattractive— the next, for no apparent 
cause, her appearance would change, her cheeks glow, her face 
deepen, brighten as it by magic, and her eyes gleam witli a light 
that 1 vaguely felt for the moment would, in most men’s opinion, 
dim Edith’s placid beauty into insignificance. She had certainly 
very strange eyes — 1 never could ascertain their exact shade. Some- 
times they were deep, dark, still, like water in heavy shadow — 
again they were all life with flickering tawny lights, as they were 
that moment, when raised to Edith’s in rueful expostulation. 

Oh, Miss Stopford, please don’t ask me to change my wool 
again! Let me finish to the stalk in this browny yellow.” 

” My dear Mrs. Dennys, impossible! You have only three shades 
in the leaf as yet, and 1 have changed my wool as many as three- 
and-twenty times in a single spray of virgin vine.” 

‘‘^.aveyou? Then I’ll never be an artist in crewel!” laughed 
Helen, the cloth dropping lazily from her hands; whereupon Jim, 
her little terrier, thinking the lesson over, jumped briskly up on 
her lap, upsetting her work-basket, the contents of which rolled 
noisily over the waxed boards, scissors, tapes, needles, bodkins went 
right and left — a stout reel of black cotton traveled languidly my 
way, and, stooping to pick it up, the soft golden hair of the only 
woman 1 ever loved brushed my forehead deliciously. 

‘‘ Meet me at the end of the cedar-walk in half an hour,” she 
said in a quick whisper, with downcast eyes, fumbling for the reel 
that 1, in my agitation, had dropped again. ” 1 have something to 
say to you.” 

1 nodded, lay back in my chair, and instinctively held up the 
paper to shade my face from observaion. When my wife called 
me over to diink a cup of tea 1 glanced apprehensively into a mirror 
to see if the color had faded from my temples yet. No, it was still 
there burning brightly, even through my tanned skin. 

” Meet me at the end of the cedar- walk in half an hour,” 1 re- 
peated stupidly, again and again, as 1 strolled across the lawn to- 
ward Bretton Hall, the residence of General Stopford, Edith’s 
uncle, and my graiidtather’s brother. What does it mean? What 
can she have to say to me? 1 can’t understand it.” 

At the end of the cedar-walk 1 took up my position, lighted a 
cigar, and tried to wait as patiently as 1 could. It was a lovely 
evening in late June, and the drowsy hum of the bees, mingling 
with the breath of roses and syringas, coming from the old English 
garden behind the walk, sent my thoughts wandering back to an- 
other evening in June, just a year ago, when I had sat on the same 
bench, burning with love and suspense, wailing to ask the fair lady 
who had given me tryst to-day to be my wife We had known 
each other from childhood, and during my sister’s life-time little 
Edith had lived almost as much with us as at the Hall. 1 remem- 
ber 1 had proposed to her at the early age of fourteen and had been 
favorably answered. 

” Yes, Paul,’' the young lady had said, lifting up her rosy lips 


MY POOR WIFE. 


74 

foi my sheepish kiss. “ 1 will marry you, as you are llie eldest, 
and have asked me the lirst— and then, when you’re dead, I’ll 
marry A-rty, it he’s good.” 

To which arrangement Arty — at the time being hopelessly in love 
with Edith’s French governess, a black-eyed, vivacious damsel of 
twenty-nine — cheerfully agreed. 

After that 1 saw nothing of her for many years. My sister be- 
ginning to ail and being ordered to the South of France, 1 spent my 
holidays for some years with her and my father on the Riviera; 
then 1 passed into Sandhurst, and, after that, 1 had five years with 
my regiment in India. 

In the meantime matters had not gone smoothly at home. My 
handsome brother Arthur, destined for the bar, and w^ho was sup- 
X)osed to have all the brains of the family, turned out to be a des- 
perate scamp and an unmitigated fool. He disgraced himself at 
Oxford; then, throwing aside all sense of restraint and decency, 
sowed the most prolific crop of wild oats ever chronicled in the 
sober and respectable annals of the Dennyses of Col worth. Before 
he had reached his twenty-second year he had squandered tw^o con- 
siderable fortunes— one left him by his mother, whose favorite child 
he was — another by his godfather, besides plunging my poor father 
into a gulf of debt that eventually hastened his death. Hearing of 
his critical state and heavy troubles, I resigned my commission and 
hurried home, only to find him, alas, restiog quietly in his grave, 
and my wretched brother an exile in the wilds of Australia, whither 
he had gone to evade his creditors. 

It w^as a very dreary homie-returning, and bitterly did 1 anathe- 
matize my precipitancy in giving up my profession to moon away 
my life at Colworth in solitude. Nearly all the ” chums ” of my 
boyhood had ” moved on ” somehow, except my immediate neigh- 
bors at the Hall, the ofd general and his niece; and 1 think, but for 
their kindly reception, 1 should have started wandering again. The 
former i found in a very precarious state of health and temper, the 
combined infiuences of gout and unlimited brandy-and-watk’ mak- 
ing him a trying companion to poor Edith, who was however most 
patient with him, and as devoted as any daughter could be. 

At first 1 did not recognize in the beautiful and graceful young 
lady who greeted me so easily and kindly the child 1 had played 
with yeais ago; but by degrees, landmarks ol old times cropped up, 
and we found we had not forgotten each other in the least. 1 fell 
head over ears in love with her at once, and for weeks hovered 
about her in a state of beatific suftering, not daring to hope, and 
unable to tear myself away. Day after day 1 told myself 1 had not 
the slightest chance. "Was she not the most beautiful, charming, 
angelic creature in existence, besides being the presumptive heiress 
of the old general’s vast wealth? Was not every eligible male in 
the county my rival, too? Yet 1 stayed, and by degrees the delight- 
ful, intoxicating fact became clear, even to my bewildered senses, 
that she showed more favor to me than to any other suitor. She 
had* always a smile of welcome and a bright word for me, and at 
times, when she believed herself unobserved, I have caught her 
lovely blue eyes stealthily resting on me with a look of unmistak- 


MY POOR WIFE. T5 

able affeclion that fired my blood, and made me lose my head for 
the moment. 

One.day, driven to desperation by one of those stolen glances, I 
resolved to try my fate, and learn the best or worst. She had gone 
to spend the atternoon at the Rectory, her uncle told me, but would 
be back to dinner. 1 went to the cedar-walk, knowing she would 
return by that way, and spent a feverish hour preparing for the 
attack, composing heart-reoiling appeals, declarations of eternal de- 
votion; and yet the moment she stood before me in her blooming 
beauty, with a slim white finger held under my nose within an inch 
of my mustache, and said beseechingly — “ Oh, Paul, dear boy, do 
try to get this wretched thorn out for me! That stupid little curate 
only drove it further in, and it does hurt so!” all the stored-up elo- 
quence w'ent clean out of my head. 

When 1 h d successfully, though rather clumsily, performed the 
operation, i fell upon my knees at her feet, and, seizing her hand, 
pressed it to my lips, as 1 stammered out rapturously-^ 

‘‘ Edith, Edith, my darling, 1 love you — 1 love you. O, say it is 
not in vain! 1 — ” 

Here 1 stopped in dumb dismay, for Edith, with a look almost 
of horror, hastily dragged her hand from me, and, covering her 
crimson face with it, cried hysterically: 

” Hush, hush— oh, please hush! You— you don’t know what you 
are saying! Oh, this is a dreadful misiake! 1 — 1— thought you 
knew — you had guessed 1—1 — ” 

” Loved some one else?” 1 prompted, fiercely. 

She bent her head in assent, her face still buried in her hands. 

” No, 1 did not guess,” I answered hoarsely, after a snort pause; 
” and i think. Miss Stopford, if you review your conduct to me 
during the last two months, you will have to admit you gave me 
little reason for arriving at such a conclusion. Who is he?’' 1 de- 
manded roughly. 

‘‘ 1 — 1 can’t tell you; don’t ask me. Oh, Paul, dear old friend, 
wmn’t you try to forgive me?” she pleaded, lifting her lovely tear- 
stained face timidly to mine. ” 1 am so sorry, so sorry if 1 have 
pained you — 1 did not mean to indeed. 1 — I thought you looked 
upon me only as a sister whom you had known—” 

‘‘ A sister!’* 1 interruped, with a harsh loud laugh — ‘‘a sister I 
Edith, can you look me in the face and say you believed such a. 
thing? No! I thought not” — as she cowered aw^ay from me in. 
stinctively. ‘‘ You knew what you were doing well — well; but you 
would not spare * your dear old friend ’ one single pang — you would 
drag him to your feet, and let your heartless vanity batten on his 
anguish! Oh, it was shameful — shameful! Had you not a glut of 
victims already?” 

“ Paul,” she cried, impulsively — and there was a touch of de- 
cision in her voice that silenced me — ” that is enough; 1 will listen 
to no more — let me pass, please. One day you will be sorry for those 
words— on your bended knees you will ask my pardon!” 

” Now, now, my dearest, my sweetest,” 1 inteirupted impetuous- 
ly, falling down again before her, love overmastering every other 
emotion. ‘‘ 1 will ask your pardon a thousand times, if you will 


76 


MY POOR WIFE. 


only give me one little word of hope! Oh, Edith, if you knew how 
1 loved you, you — you would pity me a little!” 

1 had seized hex dress, and was kissing its flimsy frilling wildly, 
when her cool white hand was laid on my brow, and she whispered 
tenderly — 

” 1 can’t, 1 can’t pity you, Paul. Don’t you— don’t you under- 
stand you have come too late?” 

With an imprecation 1 sprung to my feet, cursing her for a con- 
summate flirt, and left her sobbing and reproaching me for my 
wrath and cruelty. 

That night 1 went to town and tried to drown despair in dissipa- 
tion. At the end of a fortnight 1 had almost persuaded myself 1 
was cured, when, one night at the opera, I saw her seated beside a 
young fellow of whom 1 had been vaguely jealous from the begin- 
ning, Lord Sandmouth’s sailor son, just returned from sea. 

She was smiling on him as she had smiled on me, and my jealousy 
broke forth as fiercely as ever. 1 could not tell whether 1 loved or 
hated her most. The next day 1 determined to put the sea between 
her and me, but could not at once decide to which side of the globe 
1 would steer — whether to make for Korway or the I^ile, New York 
or Jerusalem, when 1 remembered a commission, intrusted to me 
by a dying friend in India some two years before, and 1 decided on 
fulfilling it before starting on a longer journey. 

He had died of fever in the jungle, and 1 was the only European 
with him during his illness. He had asked me on my return home 
to find out if his mother were still alive, deliver a package of letters 
into her hands, beg her forgiveness, and tell her how deeply he re- 
gretted thetr long estrangement. For fifteen years he had not seen 
or heard of her, but he gave me her address at their lime of parting, 
in a remote village on tfc coast of Donegal. 

After a wearying railway journey, and many hours’ painful jolt- 
ing over miles of wild barren mountain, 1 found my friend’s mother 
living in a desolate farm-house half-way up a craggy peak overlook- 
ing the sea, eight miles by road from the nearest post-town — and a 
more disagreeable, repellent, harsh-toned old woman it was never 
my ill-lack to come across. 

It was with a feeling of repugnance that 1 delivered the poor 
fellow’s last request for forgiveness, hearing the way she sought to 
make spiritual capital to herself out of his very death, and improve 
the occasion for my benefit. 

Unceremoniously cutting a Pharisaical tirade short, 1 was in the act 
of rising to take my leave when a girl entered, her apron full of 
freshly-dug potatoes, which she held out to Mrs. Casey tor inspec- 
tion. 

” Mike sent you in these, and wants to know it he’s to go on dig- 
ging tor the market?” 

With an imperious gesture she silenced the girl, motioning her to 
the window, where, after the first startled glance in my direction, 
she sat quite still, looking out to sea. 

1 resumed my seat half unconsciously, and stared at the new 
arrival with an interest quite unacountable to myself ; certainly, her 
beauty did not appeal to me, she did not even strike me as being pos- 
sessed of ordinary good looks. Her face was covered with freckles 


MY POOR WIFE. 


?7 


and tanned by the sun, and her hair fell in an unkempt mass round 
her neck and shoulders; her dress was a coarse serge, unrelieved by 
the slightest attempt at trimming or ornament. While 1 looked my 
thoughts went back to Edith, on whose fairness 1 had often feasted 
sitting in the sunlight, as this girl was now, her pietty fingers spark- 
ling with diamonds, bangles and bracelets tinkling musically on her 
wrists and mingling with thesoft/?w/r6>^ of lace and silk each time 
she drew her needle through the everlasting strip of oatmeal cloth. 
Lace — could 1 imagine such a texture shadowing that child’s little 
brown fist fingering the clay-crusted potatoes on her knees! I began 
to wonder lazily who she was — servant or relation of the grisly 
chatelaine J —when my surmises were brought to an abrupt close. 
Mrs. Casey's improving oration had reached a rounded period, and 
1 was evidently expected to say “ Amen ” and take my departure, 
chastened and edified in spirit. 1 rose to say good-bye. 

“You will have a charming afternoon for your walk, Mr. 
Dennys,” she said, taking my hand with some alacrity. “ Situated 
as you behold I am, away from all civilization, 1 regret it is not in 
my power to oifer you even the form of hospitality.” When I had 
murmured a hasty disclaimer she resumed complacently, “ But you 
will have a charming afternoon foi your walk; you came from 
Ballykillagan, did you not?” 

“Yes, 1 walked thence— 1 could find no car in the village; it 
must be eight or nine miles at the least.” 

“Because you came by the road; by the cliffs and across the 
Goat’s Back it’s not quite five. Helen, my granddaughter here, will 
put you on the track if you like.” 

1 said I would like, and the next minute Helen and 1 were stand- 
ing outside. I waited tor a moment, thinking she would want hat, 
cloak, or sunshade, but, as she seemed to consider herself fully 
equipped, we started at once across the sloping meadow that led to 
the brink of the cliff, where she paused with shyly averted face, 
pointed to a tiny sheep- track winding round the coast, bade me keep 
to that until 1 had turned the third point, then to steer inland in a 
southerly direction until 1 came to a ruined cabin. 

Here 1 interrupted her, somewhat aggrievedly, explaining that 1 
was quite a stranger in these parts, and would be sure to lose myself 
if she did not accompany me further. 

“ Besides,” 1 concluded, tentatively, “ as your grandmother im- 
pressed on me, it certainly is lovely weather for walking, and you 
have nothing particular to do this afternoon, have you?” 

“ 1 have nothing at all to do; if you wish. I’ll go with you as far 
as you like,” she answered, much to my surprise, and started at a 
break-neck pace down the cliff. 

I tried to follow at the same speed; but, after going a few yards, 
had to come to an ignominious halt, cliuging wildly to a clump of 
gorse. My hat went rolling steadily down to the shore several hun- 
dred feet below, whilst my face and hands were scratched and 
bleeding, and my feet constantly slipping from under me. At last, 
jammed in between two bushes, I crouched cautiously forward to 
review my position. My sprightly guide had reached the sheep 
track, then, after looking hastily round for me, 1 saw her suddenly 


78 


MY POOR WIFE. 


spring up the side of a block of granite, as bald as the palm of my 
hand, and disappear seaward over the surnmit. 

“ By Jove!” 1 exclaimed, in utter astonishment. “ Why, she’s 
an antelope, a mountain cat, the old witch’s granddaughter! 1 
wish I had never come across either of them, confound them! 1 
suppose 1 must get down somehow.” 

Halt kneeling, halt sitting, 1 descended slowly, swinging myself 
from bush to bush, heedless of the stinging blows from furze and 
thistle, keeping my clumsy heels well off the treacherous soil, when 
suddenly, almos!; half-way down, from under a bed of bracken that 
covered her to the chin, Helen’s face looked up at me full of eager, 
contrite concern, her strange dark eyes sweeping my disfigured, per- 
spiring face with a look that thrilled me almost uncannily. 

” 1 am so sorry,” she panted; ” oh, so sorry! 1 quite forgot you 
were a stranger and unaccustomed to the cliffs; they are dreadfully 
slippery this weather. 1 have to go after the sheep for Mike every 
day now' — he can’t hold on a bit, though he was born on the mount- 
ain. Ah, how you have hurt yourself to be sure! Those dreadful 
furze bushes! Put your hand on my shoulder, 1 will guide you 
down the rest; we have only the ferns to work through now to the 
path. Here’s your hat; it’s not spoiled a bit — 1 picked it up on 
the beach before the water had time to reach it.” 

“ It was after my hat you were scaling that cliff?” 

“ Yes, 1 had not time to go round by the path; the tide is on the 
turn, and would have taken it oft to America in two minutes more.” 

” You’re not going away now, are you?” I asked, eagerly, lift- 
ing my hand from her slender shoulder. ” You’ll see me beyond 
the first point, won’t you?” 

~‘‘Y'es, yes — for sure, yes,” she answered, quickly; ”1 will go 
with you to the Goat’s Back, it you like— ay, and beyond it. Oh, 
Mr. Dennys, what a rude, wild, ill-mannered girl you must think 
me to fly off and leave you like that after you being to kind to come 
that long, long way — from London itself — just to tell granny about 
poor Uncle Brian! Will you forgive me, please?” 

1 pressed the childish hand, saying smilingly: 

” Yes, yes, 1 forgive you. Miss Helen.” 

” And you will let me wipe the blood from your poor face, won’t 
you?” she pleaded, dipping a large cool leaf into a little crystal pool 
under a rock— handkerchief this child of nature had none, 1 sus 
pected— and passing it over my hot and blood-stained face. 

After this, we marched on side by side, and became friends fast. 
Long before we had reached the ruined cabin, 1 knew the whole 
story of her lonely, neglected life. 1 knew that she had been born 
on the mountain — had lived there all the eighteen years of her un- 
eventful life, never once having visited the post-town of Droom- 
league; that she had no father or mother, brothers nor sisters, but 
lived all alone with her grandmother and two servants, Mike Doolan 
and his wife Biddy; and, finally, though the poor child made no 
complaint of her natural guardian or indeed seemed aware there was 
cause for any, yet 1 clearly saw that she was shamefully neglected 
by her, and no more concern paid to her bodily or mental well- 
being than if she had been a goat browsing on the mountain side, 
instead of a dead daughter’s only child. 


MY POOK WIPE. 


79 


After helping for a couple of hours every morning in the dairy 
and farm-yard, she told me she was free to do what she pleased, 
wander whither she would the whole day long, make what chance 
acquaintance she liked, come in at any hour of the evening unques- 
tioned, unrestrained— indeed, she had often spent the whole night 
lying on the cliff, when she found her little ill-ventilated attic too 
hot and close to sleep in, and no one had been any the wiser; and, 
even it they were, she argued— in answer, 1 suppose, to my dissent- 
ing look — Biddy wouldn’t mind, and granny wouldn’t care — not she! 
And, besides, what harm was it? Sure nothing in the world made 
her feel so good and happy as lying tnere all alone in the great still- 
ness, waiting for the first streak of dawn to wake up the sleeping 
sea, watching the white-winged sea-birds sailing in and out among 
the great dark rocks! 

“And now 1 must be going, Mr. Dennys,” she said, when a 
•cluster of thatched roofs lying close to the shore came within view, 
“ for there’s JtJallykil lagan before you. How quickly we have 
walked, to be sure! I never thought 1 came so far. Good-bye, and 
thanR you again and again tor coming. I’m afraid you won’t get 
the train from Droomleague to-night — it’s too bad!” 

“ To-night?” 1 repeated, dreamily. “ 1—1 am not going away 
to-night. 1 think I am going to stay in this neighborhood tor a few 
days more. ’ ’ 

“ Yes? Why, what would keep you here?” 

“ 1 don’t know. What am 1 saying? Fishing— no, no, I mean 
sketching! You must know. Miss Helen, I’m a bit of an artist— a 
very little bit indeed; and, from what I’ve'Seen of the coast to-day — ” 

“ Oh, yes,” she interrupted, eagerly, “ you’re right. It's quite a 
famous ground for marine artists. Two or three of them come every 
summer and put up at Murphy’s farm at Ballykillagan; you’ll find 
it quite clean and comfortable. And fancy, Mr. Dennys! Last 
year one of them put me in a picture just as 1 sat on a rock fornist 
him: only he painted my feet bare, my skirt red, and my face quite 
— quite pretty.” 

“You’ll let me try my hand, if I bring my easel this way to- 
morrow?” I asked quickly, to which she gave a pleased assent, and 
promised to show me all the picturesque points within a radius of 
nine miles. 


CHAPTER 11. 

1 STAYED on in Donegal, and during fourteen golden days caricat- 
ured the “ royal walls of the Atlantic,” while Helen sat at my feet 
and did the honors of her native soil, her brown hands busy all the 
time mending old Daddy Griffin’s tattered fishing-nets, bleaching 
for miles along the parched turf that covered the brow of the cliffs. 

“ Weil, yes, it is a bit of a job, sir,” she admitted, deprecat ingly; - 
“ but sure if 1 did not do it for him, who would? His sons are 
away at sea, and Molly his wife — she was my nurse when 1 was a 
baby — has gone to see her daughter at Droomleague and he’s so old 
and blind — the creature! Who wouldn’t give him a hand?” 

She netted busily, while I daubed lazily and amused myself draw- 
ing out this impulsive child of nature, to whom all the artificial 


80 


MY POOK WIFE. 


beauties and wonders ot the great world beyond that lonely wall of 
rock were as unknown as to an inhabitant of the Caribbean Islands 
in the last century. 

The pastime began to grow upon me; 1 felt a daily increasing in- 
terest in watcning her dark face glowing and brightening, her 
strange eyes sparkling, distending with wonder, horror, or delight 
in obedience to my sybaritic fancy. Then, becoming more interested 
in my companion, 1 telegraphed up to town for specimens of 
magical modern art, then for books, pictures, photographs, hot- 
house flowers, honhonSy all of which she believed 1 daily unearthed 
from my inexhaustible portmanteau at Murphy's farm. 1 stayed 
on, heedless of aught beyond the fact that 1 was clearly giving pleas- 
ure-very keen, freely-expressed pleasure— to a little savage, interest- 
ing waif, who seemed not to be worth any one’s while to look 
after, much less amuse, and at the same time improving my own 
despairing condition, for the air ot Donegal was certainly healing 
my wounded heart. Day after day the haunting image of my fair 
false love became fainter and less painful to my sight. 1 was glee- 
fully looking forward to the time when 1 could cast her from me 
altogether and return free and whole in heart to the ancestral acres, 
when one morning a letter from a friend at Colworth, which com- 
mented on the “ apparenly successful innings Lord Sandmouth’s 
son was making with the heiress,” awoke my slumbering love and 
jealousy to life again. 

Helen at once noticed my woe-begone appearance, and, accepting 
pitifully my explanation of a “beastly headache,” begged me to 
lay aside my work which 1 was mechanically preparing, and lie 
down quietly in the shade. 1 complied; but, soon tiring ot in- 
action, began to read first to myself and then aloud a rhythmic tale 
of love, despair, and death told by a master-hand. The sea-stained 
nets soon dropped from Helen’s fingers, the color dyed her clear 
cheek, her eyes tilled, then drooped, and 1 had the selfish satisfac- 
tion of reducing her to the same dismal, unhappy state as myself. 

Neither of us rallied again; and, when we parted that night, I 
stood on the hill carelessly watching her retr^^ating figure, and saw 
her dog — a paintully-sensitive little terrier; the only living thing 
she loved— apparently begging to be told the cause of her unusual 
preoccupation, crouching, wriggling at her feet, jumping up 
against her, challenging her attention by every art of dog, but in 
vain. She walked along with downcast head, her arms drooping 
by her sides. 1 was moving after her unconsciously, to say, to do, 
for the life of me 1 did not know what. Perhaps to tell her not tc> 
mourn over imaginary woes, but to keep her sighs for real sorrow, 
for the pain perhaps of love betrayed — wantonly betrayed — like 
mine, when a hard yellow hand clutched my shoulder, and a coarse 
voice exclaimed breathlessly : 

“ Stop, ye thief o’ the wurrld — stop! What are ye after-^eh?” 

1 turned indignantly and found myself confronted by an old 
woman in a long blue cloak, and a limp white cap framing an ugly^ 
wrinkled face. 

“What d’ye mean? What business is it of yours?” 1 asked, 
shaking off her hand. 

“ What business? Ye may well ask, ye dirty spalpeen,” she re- 


MY POOR WIFE. 


81 


torted bitterly. “ No, no; 1 tell ye, 1 won’t get out o’ yer way— 
ye’ll have to knock me down first. I’m only an ould woman, an’ 
ye’ll do it aisy enough; but even then I’ll hang on to ye, an’ dig me 
nails into ye, until ye tell me what ye’ve said to that motherless 
little crayther that hasn’t a sowl in the wide wurrld to care whether 
she-” 

“ Oh!” 1 interrupted quickly, all the anger leaving my face and 
voice. “ 1 understand. You’re old Molly Griffin come home at 
last.” 

*• A.y, ay, an’ it’s about time I aid come home, I’m thinkin’. 
Ochone, ochone; but isn’t this a cruel wurrld entirely! Oh, 
aren’t ye ashamed of yerself, you that calls yerself a gentleman 
belikes, to— to play the scoundrel like that? Wouldn’t her very 
innocence, her forlornness spake to yer black sowl and bid ye go 
yer ways an laive such as her in peace?” 

“Molly, Molly,” 1 said gently, for 1 felt a certain respect and 
liking for this uncouth old dame, the only friend and protector poor 
Helen seemed to have, “ don’t let your tongue run so fast, if you 
please. Allow me a word in self-defense.” 

Then 1 explained the cause of the girl’s depressed appearance that 
particular evening. After a little hesitation a look of relief crossed 
her face and 1 saw she believed ire. 

“ Well, well, I beg yer pardon, that’s all 1 can say. 1 oughtn’t to 
have been so hasty maybe. But I’ve had bitther cause. Heaven 
knows, to suspect the likes o' you. Not, sir, that I’ve heered any- 
thin’ but good of you, so far. How you’ve come all the way from 
London to tell the ould wan ’bout poor Master Brian, an’ give up 
his letters— the heavens be his bed this night! But — but,” she 
went on anxiously, after a slight pause, “ what I want to know is, 
yer kind work done, what on earth keeps ye loiterin’ on here at the 
back o’ Godspeed?” 

“ I’m doing no harm,” 1 muttered doggedly. 

“ An’ I say ye are — ye are. No harm to yerself, an’ manin’ none 
mayhap, ayther ways; but harm all the same to her. She was 
happy, contented, at laist, poor child, in her lonesome quiet ways, 
scampering about wid her dog, swimmin’ an’ splashin’ about in the 
say, until you came with yer soft voice, yer white hands, an’ 3^er 
handsome face, giving her what no wan ever give her before, 
flowers, an’ books, sweeties an’ purty gimcracks; an’, sweeter still, 
kind words an’ smiling looks, what her poor little heart’ll miss an^ 
hunger for sore when ye’ve gone yer ways an’ forgotten her very 
name. But ye mane no harm of coorse, of coorse — ah, get away 
with ye, man alive; yer all the same the wurrld over, rich or poor, 
high or low — every mother’s son of ye — self, self, self!” 

“ You’re mistaken, you’re mistaken indeed, old woman,” 1 broke 
in earnestly; “ she’s a child, a mere child. 1 know her better than 
you. She’ll forget me before 1 will her, you’ll see.” 

“You know he? better than me who nursed her from the cradle 
an’ her mother before her,” retorted Molly contemptuously—” you! 
An’ 1 tell ye to yer face, it’s you that are mistaken, not me. 1 see 
a change in her the last month, a great change; I seen it the first 
moment ] looked at her last Tuesday, an’ I’ve watched her close 
ever since.” 


MY POOK WIFE. 


S2 

“ Well, what have you found out?’" 

“I’ve found out the things she cared for wonst plaz her no more, 
that her eye is always turned wan way— the way you come across 
the mouniain; her ear always listenin’ for wan sound — the sound of 
yer footstep; that her thoughts are with you night an’ day, sleepin’ 
an’ wakin*. 1 came on her yesterday mornin’ at daybreak an’ 
found her dramin’ on the clilSt; when 1 touched her she smiled and 
whispered the word ‘ Paul ’—that’s yer name, isn’t ii — Paul? An’ 
ye’ve axed her to call ye by it, though ye did mane no harm!” 

Tbe old woman was right; I had asked her to call me by my 
Christian name the day before. 1 turned away strangely moved 
and startled, remorse, pity, tenderness mingling with a stealthy glow 
of triumph and satisfaction, offspring of the meanest, most selfish 
vanity, making me ashamed to meet my inquisitor’s scornful search- 
ing eye. 

“ What would you wish me to do, if this be true, which 1 doubt, 
very much doubt?” 1 asked, after a painful pause. 

“ There’s only wan thing you can do, and that your own sense 
ought to tell you quick enough. Go away at once and never come 
niirh the place again.” 

“ Yes,” 1 assented eagerly, “1 will go away in a day or two 
without tail.” 

“ In a day or two! !No— if ye go at all, ye must go now — this 
very night.” 

“ What, without one word of farewell?” 

“ AYithout a word.” 

“ I’ll do nothing of the kind; you’ve overshot the mark, old 
woman,” 1 said determinedly, moving away. “ It 1 do go to-night. 
I’ll see her first and assure myself of the falseness of your silly tale, 
you doting old termagant!” 1 added, under my breath. 

1 went back quickly, she following me more slowly, and, on the 
edge of the cliff where we had first stood together, 1 found Helen 
motionless, looking out to sea. 

W itliout giving any explanation for looking her in the face, 1 told 
her, with a forced heavy briskness, 1 had come to say good-bye, as 
business of importance called me to England on the morrow 

“ You are going to-morrow,” she repeated, but said not another 
word. 1 stole a glance at her face; it was deadly pale and still, but 
otherwise bore no trace of stormy feeling 

“It’s — it’s very unfortunate, but 1 must start in the morning. 
I’ll send you the books 1 promised and the illustrated ‘ Atlas ’ as 
soon as 1 get to town. Y^ou — you will find the latter very useful 
for the information you want,” 1 said uneasily — “ there’s an alpha- 
betical key at the end, you know; and— and V\\ leave you my ad- 
dress in case — in case you should want anything. You know how 
happy 1 would be to help you, and— and hear ot your welfare now 
and then, Helen.” 

Still not a word, she did not seem to hear me, so 1 relapsed into 
silence too. 

“ Helen,” I resumed desperately, “ have you — you nothing to say 
to me? 1—1 am going away to-morrow.” 

“ 1 have to say good-bye, "have I not?” she answered at last, turn- 
ing round lull upon me. “ Ihen let me say it at once.” She put 


MY POOPt WIFE. 


83 


her hands for a moment into mine, stooped, picked up Jim and held 
his little wet nose to my tace. “ A friend has come to sa}' ^^ood- 
bye to you and me, Jim — a very kind friend. Tell him how sorry 
you are to lose him, and ask him not to — to forget us too soon.” 

An instinct of self-protection urged me to hold my tongue. 1 
bent my head over her arms and touched Jim's little ragged poll 
gingerly. Our faces — his mistress's and mine — were but a few 
inches apart; 1 could not resist one upward glance— lo, before she 
had time to turn away, a great swelling tear fell from her veiled 
eyes, and what little self-possession 1 had left deserted me altogether. 
The next second Helen was in my arms and 1 was kissing the tears 
from her crimson cheeks, telling her not to fret, for 1 would never 
leave her now, that she and Jim and 1 would go away together and 
never part again. 

” Prove yer words, prove yer words, if ye mane fair an' honest. 
( .'ome up to the house wid me this minute an' jis ax th' ould wan 
for her straight. She'll give her to ya fast enough, sorra a fear.” 

Molly’s flat eager voice broke in upon my sweetheart’s smothered 
sobs; her lusty hand pulled us apart and Anally dragged me up 
the meadow and into the presence of Mrs. Casey. The venerable 
lady we tound in a flannel wrapper and bef rilled night-cap, warm- 
ing her toes before a bright turf fire, a round of buttered toast and 
a steaming tumbler of port negus by her side. 

At first she was icily indignant at my intrusion; but, when she 
learned the nature of my errand, her manner thawed, and with flat- 
tering affability she gave me to understand that 1 could take her be- 
loved grandchild to wife as soon as ever 1 liked— even suggested, 
though somewhat doubtfully, that 1 should wait to be supplied with 
a companion tumbler of negus in celebration of the solemn betrothal, 
which hospitality 1 curtly declined; and, after a few whispered 
words with Helen, who seemed quite dazed or stupefied, I began my 
long walk home in a turmoil of tenderness, triumph, and irritation 
that was little in harmony with the glorious stillness of the moonlit 
ocean and cliffs. 

***** * 

I awoke the next morning after a restless night with the comfort- 
ing consciousness that 1 had made an unmitigat*‘d fool of myself, 
tied myself for life to a girl of no position, education, fortune, even 
beauty, for whom in cold blood 1 really did not care a straw, while 
my heart was irretrievably bound to another. 

1 wandered about the mountains alone all day, and in the after- 
noon turned toward the farm, but when it came within view a feel- 
ing of impatient repulsion made me turn back at once. That night 
1 wrote a short note to Helen telling her 1 had to go to England on 
business, and on the following day 1 crossed the channel. 

General Stopford and his niece, 1 heard, were occupiyng their 
town-house for a tew weeks. I did not call on them, but the day 
atter my arrival 1 had the pleasure of meeting Miss Stopford in the 
Row, looking the picture of blooming health and beauty, my rival 
in devoted attendance. 

She called me at once to her side and in an imploring whisper 
begged me to come and see her that afternoon, that she would be 
” at home ” to no one but me, and had so much to say to me. 1 re- 


84 


MY POOR WIFE. 


fused point-blank, and took my leave almost at once, determined 
never voluntarily to come within range ot her appealing eyes again. 
Yet somehow the very next day tound me on thTe generaPs doorstep, 
asking if his niece were at home. 

1 was ushered into a dim boudoir, and, when my eyes became ac- 
customed to the light, 1 saw the young lady sitting beside Lord 
Sandmouth’s son, and toying with a bunch of roses that he had evi- 
dently just presented. 

“ 1 beg your pardon,’’ 1 said, with a low bow, as the pair started 
to their feet. “ 1 think 1 have made a mistake; it was yesterday 
atternoon you were to have been ‘ at home ’ and alone to me. Miss 
Stopford, was it not?” 

1 went away, wrote immediately to Mrs. Casey urging her to 
hasten the preparations for our marriage. Three weeks later 1 re- 
turned to Donegal, and one lovely August morning, without settle- 
ments, trousseaux^ presents, or the orthodox breakfast, 1 was mar- 
ried in the whitewashed parlor where 1 had hrst seen my bride less 
than three months before with her apron full of early potatoes. 

The ceremony was uneventful until the conveyance that was to 
lake us to the train came lumbering and jolting up the grassy drive, 
and Helen rose to say good-bye to her grandmother. 

“ Y^ou— you will write to me, and let me see you sometimes, 
granny?” she said timidly, with a slight break in her voice. 

“ Certainly, if you earnestly wish it, dear child,” answered Mrs. 
Casey, brushing the girl’s cheek with her bristly chin; ” but at the 
same time, Helen, 1 have been thinking seriously over this matter, 
and have come to the conclusion that it would be better if you did 
not return to the humble scene of your childhood for reasons you 
will understand later. You are entering now into a world of pleas- 
ure, wealth, excitement; 1 am passing away here in solemn un- 
disturbed communion with my Creator. My days are short on earl h, 
as you know, and 1 would rather not have them broken into by in- 
tercourse with a woild 1 have forsaken forever. You must not, 
dear child, think this decision harsh or unnatural, or that it is dic- 
tated by lack of affection for you. I^o, no, far from it; I will bear 
you daily in my thoughts, and pray with all the unction of my soul 
that you may be happy and prosperous in your new slate of life, 
and worthy in every way of the estimable gentleman in whose keep- 
ing 1 place you with unbounded confidence lo-day.” 

1 bowed to hide a grim smile, for, indeed 1 might have been the 
sorriest scamp that ever took a wife, for aught the old lady knew to 
the contrary; and my wife, with a composed, almost callous coun- 
tenance, responded, moving to the door: 

” So be it, granny; let this be good-bye forever then.” 

On the doorstep Molly was waiting to fiing her arms round her 
nurse-child in a noisy embrace; and, as we lumbered down the hill, 
her shrill blessings, mingled with the tattle of hobnailed heels and 
handfuls of rice striking the back of our carriage, made a deafen- 
ing noise. 

When it was over 1 withdrew my hands from my ears and said 
to my wife, who was looking out of the window: 

Well, Helen, how do you feel? It was not such a terrible busi- 
ness, after all, was it?” 


MY POOE WIFE. 


85 


She turned round. I saw that her eyes were gleaming, her cheeks 
burning. “You heard her, you saw her?’" she cried bitterly. 
“She was so glad to get rid of me, she could not bear the idea of 
looking upon me again—she, my mother’s mother, with whom 1 
have lived all my life? What is there in me, 1 wonder, that makes 
me such an unbearable burden to every one? When 1 had the fever 
years ago, she — she prayed that I might die. 1 wish 1 had — I wish 
I had. Now, they are all relieved, overjoyed, that you — you have 
been tricked into marrying me — every one of them, Biddy, Mike, 
even Molly, who — who 1 thought cared a little tor me. Oh, 1 — ’’ 

“ She does care for you,” 1 broke in soothingly. “ And so do I, 
Helen— you know that well. Why else should 1 have married 
you?” 

“ I don’t know— I don’t know,” she answered wildly. “You 
had some good reason, I feel; and, though you fancy you care a 
little for me now, it will wear away, and you will long to get rid of 
me like the rest. 1 wish 1 had never met you. I wish 1 had never 
been born — there’s no one cares for me in the world but little Jim, 
and he has no sense— my little Jim, whom 1—1 am never to see 
again, though you promised, Mr. Dennys, that he and 1 were never 
to be parted— you did— you know you did!” 

“ My dear, why did you not bring him with you? Y^ou know 1 
would not have objected. Let us turn back and get him at once.” 

1 leaned out to tell the driver to turn, when 1 saw the poor little 
dog, with his tongue hanging out, covered with dust, ambling feebly 
after us. I picked him up and laid him in his mistress’s arms, and 
left them for a time to whisper their grievances to one another. 
Presently Helen touched me gently, and 1 saw the storm had gone 
out of her face. She said wistfully: 

“ I’m sorry 1 said what 1 did, Mr. Dennys. .Will you forgive 
me, please, and — and try to be kind to poor little Jim and me?” 
When 1 had made the most suitable answer 1 could think of, she 
added — “ When — when — you are really tired of us, you will let us 
know, and we’ll go away quietly and ngver trouble you again.” 

* * * * * * * 

We remained abroad five months, for 1 was anxious to rub ofi the 
surface-coat of my wile’s rusticity before bringing her under the crit- 
ical eyes of my friends. 

1 must say the undertaking was not a painful or tedious one by 
any means. Somehow the lace ruflies and bangles fitted her little 
brown wrists more naturally than 1 imagined. She learned quickly 
and aptly, and, much to my surprise, showed an innate capabilit}^ 
of discerning worth and beauty in the higher branches of art which 
culture had failed to awaken in me. In a picture-gallery she would 
instinctively go to the best picture, stand entranced before canvases 
from which my eye and indeed the average eye of our fellow -travel- 
ers turn away in dull weariness. 

She was very observant and intelligent, never required to be told a 
thing twice, and in a very short time of wedded intimacy learned to 
read the meaning of every light and shade that crossed my com- 
monplace countenance, the very thoughts of my heart — in a manner 
that startled me at first, until 1 came to accept it as an ordinary 
wifely accomplishment, not without its advantages to one of my tor- 


86 


MY POOR WIFE. 


pid temperament. The thing 1 had been longing lazily for 1 would 
find somehow at my el Dow as soon as she entered the room, the 
words 1 would wish said would drop naturally from her lips, the 
people X liked would be her friends at the end ot a week. 

By degrees it began pleasantly to dawn upon me that 1 was get- 
ting some return for the great sacrifi(;e 1 had certainly made in 
marrying her, and the sense of irritation at being duped that had at 
first pursued me wore away until 1 forgot its very existence. Helen 
made me comfortable, most undeniably comfortable, and her happy 
smiling face and gradually improving looks brought me a feeling 
of self-approbation that L thoroughly enjoyed and that certainly 
soothed my temper, so sorely tried during my first unfortunate love- 
afitair. 1 accepted all her attention, her cheerful devotion as my 
due; now and then rewarding her with a kind word or a loving 
caress. 

“ Clever child!” 1 remember murmuring one day, when, erratic- 
ally putting forth my hand, it alighted on the cigar-case and the 
newspaper for which I had been wishing. “ How do you always 
guess?” 

“ Love teaches me, 1 suppose,” she replied, with a rosy smile. 
” Youremember 1 had a great quantity of that article in stock when 
you appeared, and you asked me for all I had in a lump, Paul.” 

How much love she received from me in return 1 did not try to 
find out, never troubling mysell with sentimental analysis ot the 
kind after my marriage until we returned to Colworth, and 1 found 
Edith still unweddetf and unwon, more beautiful than ever, the 
hand ot friendship gracefully outstretched to my wife, and little 
glances of semi-sarcastic, semi- wistful reproach for me whenever 
our eyes met unobserved. 


CHAPTER III. 

This evening, when Edith had called upon my wife, was the first 
time she had e'^'er suggested or seemed to wish for a private inter- 
view, and the circumstance disturbed and excited me more than 1 
liked. When at last, after a long delay, she came down the walk, 
1 rose instinctively to meet her, and tried to give to the interview as 
cold and as business-like a tone as 1 could command. 

” What must you think of me, Paul?” she began impulsively. 
” But 1 had no resource left but to ask you to meet me here. You— 
you are the only friend — look about me as anxiously as 1 can— to 
whom 1 dare turn tor pity and help in a great danger that threatens 
me, to whom 1 dare trust a secret that weighs — oh, so heavily! — 
upon my Jife. You once here, on this spot, told me you loved me 
dearly— that-that love is of course dead now; but to its memory- 
how dear and precious to me, you will ne'^er know! — 1 now appeal 
when 1 implore you to share my secret and give me the help with- 
out which I shall sink. Ah, you will pity and forgive me when you 
know all. Hear me, dear Paul, friend of my youth, I beseech 
youl” 

Prudence, loyalty to poor Helen, who believed in me so implicitly, 
distrust of myself, twenty other considerations urged me to refuse 


MY POOR WIFE. 


87 


her request; but her little hot hands were grasping mine, her lovely 
blue eyes full of entreaty were fixed upon m 3 " face. 1 bent my head, 
she whispeied her secret into my ear. It was a secret that startled 
and pained me more than 1 could have believed possible, that filled 
me with indignation and pity, made me promise her my most devot- 
ed unconditional allegiance, and, kneeling by her side, beg forgive- 
ness for my harsh judgment and cruel w"ords to her a 3 ^ear before. 
Poor, poor child, if 1 only could have guessed! 

Up and down the walk 1 paced for fully ten minutes battling with 
_my wrath and agitation, until her anxious face recalled me to the 
necessity for prompt and cautious action; and taking my place be- 
side her we talked together for fully halt an hour in earnest whis- 
pers, and discussed the most available measures for averting the 
threatened danger. When w"e rose to part at last, she laid her hand 
on my arm with a piteous gesture. 

“ 1 have trusted you; you w"ill not betray me? You give me your 
solemn word of honor to tell no one, not even your wife, for she 
does not like me?” 

“ What an idea!” 1 burst out impulsively. ” How could you 
imagine such a thing, Edie? Why, she is always praising you, 
admiring 3 "Our beauty, your grace, your cleverness, wondering how 
1 escaped falling in love with — ” 

1 stopped abruptly, coloring furiously, whilst a lovely wave of 
carmine brightened her cheek. After a paint ully-conscious pause, 
during which we did not dare look at one another, she said, softly, 
withdrawing her hand, which 1 had been unwittingly holding: 

” Vou will find I’m right; she does not like me, Paul, indeed.” 

“ Why, Edie?” 

“How should 1 know?” twisting her rings slowly round and 
looking down. ” 1—1 have tried to be nice to her, to make a friend 
of her; but it’s of no use, she will never like me. I’m sure 1 can’t 
guess why— can you, Paul?” with a swift upward glance into my 
uneasy lace. 

Of course 1 knew then she was and always had been an un- 
blemished angel, an innocent and shamefully-injureii girl, that she 
had never willfully meant to make sport of my affections or of any 
other man’s. But, lacking this knowledge, I must confess that 
glance and that appeal in the circumstances would have savored to 
me of coquetry— of a spirited and dangerous kind. Poor child, 
how litile 1 understood her^how coarse and merciless had been my 
judgment! 

‘‘I’ve never done her any harm that 1 knew of, I’m sure; and 
people don’t as a rule find it so very hard to like me, Paul,” she 
added, with a childish wistful sigh. 

‘‘They don’t. Heaven knows they don’t!” 1 muttered, moving 
hastily away. 

“Good-bye, Paul— good-bye, brother. 1 may call you that?” 
she whispered, laying her hand on my arm, detaining me. “ Oh, if 
you had not gone away — it you had not left me — left me — ” 

“ Hush, hush!” 1 broke in thickly, covering her hot hand with 
kisses. “ We— we must not think of these things now, Edie.” 

Half-way across the lawn 1 met my wife strolling languidly toward 
me. 


88 


MY POOR WIFE. 


“ Where have you been?” she as'ked, with a slight frown. “ I 
have been looking for you everywhere — round by the paddock, 
stables, garden.” 

“ Not round by the cedar -walk, my love.” 

” Oh, you were there?” 

Yes; smoking a couple of cigars for the last hour or so since 1 
left the drawing-room.” 

” Tben you musi; have met Miss Stoptord going home; she left 
me nearly an hour ago.” 

Miss Stopford — Edie? Let me see. Yes, of course 1 met herl 
What a lovely evening it is! Suppose we take a turn by the river 
before dinner?” I suggested hastily; and, she assenting, we turned 
toward the wood that bordered my property south and west, watered 
by the briskest, clearest trout stream in Yorkshire, fringed with 
fern, forget-me-not, and moss-covered bowlders, against which the 
water fretted musically, and breaking into bubbling cascades 
drowning the voice of wood-pigeon, blackbird, and thrush that 
haunted 4he hazel thicket through which Helen was dutifully break- 
ing a way for me. 

‘‘ What a hurry it is in this evening— worse than ever!” she re- 
marked, when we stood arm in arm by the water. “You stupid, 
stupid little stream to be in such a fume to reach that foul, smoky 
town! Don’t you feel you’re well off, hemmed in by these tragrant 
banks, serenaded by thrush and blackbird, bedded with sparkling 
pebbles?” 

ADout a mile further down, the little Col, swelled by some tribu- 
tary streams of baser origin, lost its crystal identity and, after being 
mercilessly scourged and threshed by the spokes of mighty ma- 
chinery, passed through the manufacturing town of Shorton and, 
flowing eastward in a porter-colored flood, emptied itself into the 
German Ocean. 

” Yes,” 1 assented, languidly throwing myself upon the grass and 
lighting a cigar. ‘‘It do^ seem in a confounded hurry; look, Nell, 
at that beech-leaf, what a rate it’s traveling at, by Jove!” 

‘‘1 wonder if it will reach the sea to-night — heigho!” mused 
Helen, who never could look at the fairest streak of fresh water 
without longing for salt. 

” Reach the sea to-night— that leaf 1 You silly girl! Nell, would 
you like to herr a story?” 

‘‘Yes, if it’s a pretty one.” 

‘‘ It’s all in a minor key, like most true tales. Sit you down be- 
side me, and I’ll begin. Once upon a time there lived up in that 
red house where you and 1, 1 trust,* my dear, will grow gray to- 
gether, a young lady named Cecily Dennys.” 

” Oh, it’s a family legend?” 

‘‘ Yes; Miss Cecily was my great-grandaunt, and a famous beauty 
in her time. 1 have a miniature of her somewhere, 1 must show it 
to you. She had a score or so of lovers and suitors of all ages ana 
degrees, among them some of the most eligible bachelors in the 
county. The eldest son of the duke, a most gallant and polished 
gentleman, proposed to her : but she would have no one but young 
Ronald Hernshaw of the Grange below — that stone house among 
the trees, where w'e called the other day— a man whom her parents 


MY POOK WIFE. 


89 


and friends most sensibly disapproved of, for young Ronald had an 
evil reputation, and had squandered a large slice of the property 
after he came of age. 

“ Cecily however would listen to no advice, and, after a couple of 
years’ stormy engagement, the marriage-day was fixed, the guests 
invited, and one evening the poor girl was trying on her wedding- 
dress that had come from London, when her mother came in and 
told her to take it ofl: at once, for her worthless lover had the morn- 
ing before privately married a famous actress, with whom he had 
been ac(iuainted some short time. Cecily, to all appearance, took 
it quietly enough, put her dress out of sight, and then asked to be 
left to bear her sorrow alone. In a few days she appeared again in 
the family circle, much the same as usual, and her mother was con- 
gratulating herself on the issue of events. 

“ About a week after the return of the bride and bridegroom to 
the Grange, one bright June evening, just like this, she put on her 
wedding-dress and veil, slipped down to the river unperceived, and 
flung herself in, hoping, 1 dare say, that the flood would carry her 
fair body to the sea as gracefully and smoothly as that leaf you—” 

” Well — well — and it didn’t?” interrupted my wife. 

It carried her as far as the Red Mill below the second bridge, 
where — poor foolish wench! — she and all her bridal finery were 
ground to pieces.” 

” Oh, what a horrible story!” cried Helen, with a shudder. 
“Poor Cecily! 1—1 hope she was dead before she reached the 
machinery.” 

‘ ‘ History does not say ; but 1 presume she was. Her idea was 
poetical enough, and would have been very effective but for the in- 
terference of fate in her case. You know the river passes under the 
Grange terrace, where every fine evening in summer it was Master 
Ronald’s habit to sit drinking and smoking far into the night, and 
Cecily meant to float down, shrouded in her wedding-veil, like 
Elaine of old, under her faithless lover’s eyes. ” 

“ Then he saw her,” broke in my wife eagerly — “ he must have 
seen her, Paul ; for you know the Grange is about half a mile above 
the mill. Don’t spoil the story by saying he was not there when she 
passed!” 

“ I’m afraid, my dear, 1 shall have to spoil it by a most disen- 
chanting denouement, if yon want the truth and nothing but the 
truth. However, if you wish. I’ll turn the story.” 

“ No, no; keep to the text!” 

“ Well, the text is, that when Miss Cecily passed, Hernshaw un- 
fortunately had just opened his third bottle, and his sight in conse- 
quence was a trifle misty; he just turned to his wife, who, report 
said, clung to the decanters almost as devotedly as her lord, and 
hiccoughed drowsily — 

“ ‘ 1 say, Betty, there goes another car— carcass of Thompson’s, 
that is fo—fourth sheep he’s lost this season by— er— flood— unlucky 
beggar!’ — to which Mistress Betty nodded acquiescence with closed 
eyes. The body of the young lady was carried unchecked to the 
mill, where, next morning, there was not enough of her found to 
fill even a corner of the coffin her afflicted relatives laid in the family 
vault, not enough to fashion the faintest outline of a ghost where* 


90 


MY POOR WIPE. 


with to haunt the Grange and hurry Mr. Hernshaw to remorseful 
self-destruction.” 

” Then he lived?” 

” Lived — rather. Lived to marry two other wives and die at the 
patriarchal age of ninety-three.” 

‘‘ It had no effect on him— the poor girl’s awful death?” 

Uh, dear, yes; it had a certain effect! He left the Grange the 
day after the funeral, had a fortnight’s heavy spree in London, 
which seemed to have steadied his nerves and drowned his remorse, 
for before the end of the month he was home again, as hale as ever 
and indulging in his usual pastimes.” 

” How a woman could love and die for such a —a man— he must 
have been half an animal!” muttered Helen, her eyes gleaming. 

” That’s the very remark my poor father used to make when tell- 
ing me the story. Old Ronald was alive, you know, when he was 
a boy, and my father has often remarked to me that, of all the hide- 
ous, bloated, disreputable-looking old boys he had ever seen, Hern- 
shaw of the Grange was the worst, and that, if poor Cecily could 
have looked on her lover in his latter days, she would have bitterly 
rued the fatal plunge that robbed her perhaps of a happy, useful life 
and a quiet death- bed surrounded by her children’s faces.” 

” 1 don’t like your story, Paul,” Helen observed, rising abruptly 
with a shiver. ” Let us go home; it is getting quite cold.” 

” Yes, it’s an unpleasant tragedy enough,” 1 assented, lather 
eagerly — ‘‘let us turn our thoughts to lighter subjects. By the 
bye, Helen, what is this 1 hear about a garden party at the Grange 
next week? Have we received an invite?” 

‘‘ Yes, it came this morning. Don’t you remember me showing 
it to you? Lady Hernshaw expects her son on Satuiday for the 
races and the bail at Ringwall.* 

‘‘ Garden-parties, races, balls. By Jove, the county is waking up 
at last! 1 hope you have your frocks in order, IMell. You have? 
That’s right.” 

‘‘ I say, my dear,” 1 continued, rather awkardl}^ after a few min- 
utes’ silence, ** d’ye know I’ve been thinking it’s rather hard on 
Edith Stopford, after cheerfully bearing the stagnation of the spring 
and wu'nter, being carried off to Buxton with the old gentleman, just 
when the fun is coming on. Very hard, indeed, now, isn’t it?” 

” Very.” 

” Helen, don’t you think it would be a very neighborly thing if 
we asked her to stop on a week or ten days with us here, and join the 
general after the races?” 

“It would.” 

‘‘-Shall we ask her- «h?” 

” If you wish it, Paul.” 

”1—1 don’t wish it particularly, if you don’t, my dear,” 1 an- 
swered, rather lamely, for her curt, uninterested replies put me out, 
though 1 scarcely knew why. ” 1 only thought it would be a 
neighborly act, and very little trouble to us, as, of course, we must 
attend all these festivities.” 

” Then let us ask her.” 

“ You are the person to do that; she would not come on my in- 


My POOR WIFE. 91 

vitation. 1 think, if you asked the general first— he’s such a sus- 
picious, crotchety old fellow — ii would be better.’' 

“ I’ll ask him to-morrow. Now let us go in, please; the air is 

quite chilly.” ^ 

******* 

She kept her word, and, the general giving his consent, Edith 
came to us on the following Thursday, and to all appearance my 
wife and she got on most cordially together, so much so that on the 
third or fourth day 1 ventured to question Edith’s emphatic asser- 
tion in the cedar-walk, but she only shook her head. 

“ No, no, 1 am right; she does not like me, and she never will. 
It's of no use my trying to make her. Hush, hush, here she conies. 
Don’t let her see you speaking to me, Paul;*’ and, with a fiurried, 
nervous movement that 1 saw naturally attracted my wife's atten- 
lion, and even brought a taint color to her cheek, Edith turned from 
me and affected to he deeply interested in a book. 

In the beginning of the following w^eek 1 w^as unexpectedly called 
away from home on business connected with Edith’s trouble. Helen 
drove me to the station, and suddenly, wiien the train was on the 
puint of starting, implored me to take her with me — not to leave her 
behind — impressing on me it was the first time we had been parted ^ 
since we were married, and, if 1 loved her the least bit, to take her 
with me now — ” now.” 

Rather impatiently disengaging the hand she had seized, 1 re- 
minded her of her duties to her guest, whose existence she seemed to 
have forgotten, at w^hich she recovered her senses, begged me not to 
mind her foolishness, and with a cheerful smile nodded farewell. 

1 was detained in town longer than 1 expected, and when, on the 
fourth day, the express bore me northward again, 1 sighted the 
beech woods of Colwortli with a feeling of pleasure and satisfaction 
1 had not experienced even after the absence of years. Yet no one 
but the groom met me at the station, though 1 had wired my arrival. 

A hasty inquiry relieved my fears; all had gone well in my absence, 

1 was informed, and at the lodge gate Edith awaited me, and, with 
an excited gesture, begged me to descend. 

“ Here you are at last, dear boy,” she whispered, glad welcome 
sparkling in her lovely eyes. ” I — we tnought you were never com- 
ing. Helen is busy with the housekeeper; 1 don’t think she knows 
the train is due yet, so you’ll have time to take a turn in the wood 
with me, and tell me all— all. Oh, Paul, such a time I’ve spent 
since; but for your dear cheery letters 1 couldn’t have borne it.” 

Half an hour later 1 entered the house, briskly calling my wife’s 
name;, but no answer came. She was not in any ot the sitting- 
rooms, so 1 hurried up to her own room, and found her standing 
motionless by the window. She did not move or even seem aware 
ot my entrance until 1 touched her reproachfully; then she turned 
with a slight shiver, and hid her face against my shoulder. 

” ^Vhy did you go away —oh, why did you go away, Paul?” was 
all she said. 

“Helen, what a greeting! What's the matter with you, child? 
Am 1 not Iback to you now, tv'hole in mind and body?” 

“ Oh, yes, you are!” she answered, half drowsily. “ 1 hope you 
had a pleasant time in town. Was it not very hot?” 


92 


MY POOR WIPE. 


I looked at her uneasily, and was startled by the great change 
in her appearance — so startled that 1 did not speak for a minute. 

“ My absence does not seem to have agreed with you, Nell,” I 
said, with a forced sprigEttliness, and pinching her wan cheek. “ 1 
must not let you try a spell of widowhood for some time again.” 

” Oh, there’s nothing particular the matter with me,” she re- 
turned, gently, withdrawing from my touch. ” There goes the 
iuncheon-bell. Be quick, and get ready, Paul; we must not keep 
our guests waiting, you know.” 

8he scarcely spoke or ate anything during the meal, but sat with 
downcast eyes, listlessly playing with her knife and fork. I'he 
oftener 1 glanced at her the mdre painfully 1 was struck by the change 
in her looks, intensified by contrast with Edith’s rose-tinted cheeks, 
sparkling eyes, and gay, sweet laugh. Her skin had completely lost 
its clear healthy hue, and was gray and opaque; her eyes were 
sunken and dull, and there was a hard harsh line about her mouth 
that robbed her face of its youthful appearance. 

” Helen,” 1 said, anxiously, following her from the room when 
she was leaving to dress for the garden-party at the Grange, ” 1 do 
not think you are well enough to go to this party. You had much 
better remain quietly at home, and I’ll get Dr. Finlay to prescri e 
you a tonic that will bring back your color and appetite.” 

” There is nothing the matter with me, 1 tell you. Why do you 
worry so, Paul, and try to prevent me from going to the party 1 
have been so looking forward to? 1 won’t stay at home— there!” 

1 drew back, almost dumfounded by the violent querulousness 
of her tone, and said nothing more. 

Arrived at the Grange, 1 was stopped by an old Indian friend, 
and lost sight of my party for some time. 1 was trying to find them 
— at least, my wife, who 1 knew still felt shy and ill at ease among 
the notabilities of the county, and give her the support of my coun- 
tenance, when I was detained by my hostess, who exclaimed, 
animatedly: 

” Ah, here you are at last, Mr. Dennys! 1 have been looking for 
you everywhere to make up a set of tennis.” 

” Thank you,” 1 said, hastily. ” 1 am looking for my wife. She 
was so poorly this afternoon that 1 wanted her to go to bed instead 
of coming to your charming party.” 

” Poorly — your wife!” exclaimed Lady Hernshaw, gazir.g at me 
in genuine astonishment. “Mr. Dennys, why, every one is com- 
menting on her appearance! I never saw her look so well; 1 scarce- 
ly recognized her at first! AVhy, she is the attraction of the after- 
noon ; the men are flocking round her like bees round a honey-pot, 
and 1 am perfectly distracted trying to find partners for those yards 
of unfortunate girls lining the tennis-ground. Do help me to make 
up a few sets, or ” — with a meaning glance in the direction my eyes 
had also taken — ” send your invalid wife home to bed at once.” 

1 looked stupidly at my ” invalid wife.” She was reclining on a 
couch of cushions ” under a spreading chestnut-tree, ” surrounded 
by a crowd of young men, her host, a very handsome, dissipated- 
looking man of twenty-two, kneeling at her feet, holding a plate of 
strawberries and cream, while others were treasuring her parasol 
and her fan, all which overpowering attentions she was receiving 


MY POOR WIPE. 


93 


with the haughty ease and careless aplomb of a professional beauty 
of five years’ standing— my Helen, who, but a month hef are, would 
have turned away with a scared blush from the careless glance of a 
stranger! 

“Yes,” I responded, slowly, turning to my hostess, “you ate 
right. Lady Hernshaw; my poignant anxiety is relieved for the mo- 
ment. Pray command my services in the tennis ground.” 

1 played — 1 do not know how many sets— -with varying success. 
Still the group under the chestnut-tree did not disperse, but rather 
increased as the afternoon wore on. Of course, 1 was very pleased 
my wife should be the object of such fiattering and uncompromising 
attention, as 1 had resented the lukewarm, careless manner in which 
she had first been received by the county families, and the scarcely- 
veiled contempt and pity in which 1 was held for allowing myself 
to be intrapped into such a wretched marriage; but, after a couple 
of hours of public reparation, 1 felt my wounded vanity as a husr 
band satisfied, and, rather unceremonious!}^ dispersing her animated 
court, informed her of my wish to return home. 

“ Home!” she repeated, with a fiash of her eyes that was almost 
insolent. “What nonsense, Paul! Why, it is barely six o’clock? 
Besides. 1 have just promised to play a game of tennis. Go home if 
you are tired, and send the pony-trap back for me in an hour or 
two.” 

1 moved away, feeling as if a glass of cold water had been thrown 
into my face, and the court of admirers closed round her again. As 
1 walked moodily across the tennis-ground, a soft, little, gloved hand 
grasped my arm, and Edith whispered, entreatingly : 

“ Oh, Paul, dear, do help me to get rid of this stupid man! I’m 
tired to death of him, and he won’t leave me! You look tired your- 
self, and as if you had had quite enough of the festivity.” 

“ 1 was thinking of going home. Are you ready to come, Edie?” 

“ Quite. Let us start at once; I’m so glad 1 met you, Paul.” 

Bidding her cavalier an unceremonious adieu, she put her hand 
within my arm and we walked home across the fields, leaving the 
pony-trap for Helen to order whenever she liked. 

The hours went by. Edie and 1 dined tete-a-tete^ made music 
together, took a moonlight stroll to the river; still Helen did not 
return. At last, some lime after midnight, we heard the sound of 
approaching wheels, and presently she entered, with glowing cheeks 
and glittering eyes, escorted by Sir William Hernshaw, who, she 
informed us, had persuaded her to remain to dinner at the Grange, 
where they had had such a delightlul dance afterward; then, with 
a careless nod to me and Edith, and a whispered good night to her 
escort, she went straight to bed. 1 stood rooted to the spot staring 
after her, until Edith’s soft palm was passed pityingly over my hand, 
and her lips, close to my ear, murmured soothingly ; 

“ 1 am Sony — so sorry, dear boy; but you must make excuses 
for her; she is young, you know, and from her bringing up does 
not understand the usages of society. If you like I’ll give her a 
hint to-moriow that English gentlewomen do not do those things. 
She moans no harm, I’m sure.” 

I could have no explanation with Helen that night, for, when 1 
went up to her room, she was sleeping heavily; and the next mom- 


94 


MY POOK WIPE. 


iiig she rose at daybreak, and did not appear at breakfast. When 1 
returned from the club at Shorton, 1 found Edith established at the 
tsa-table with her dainty work strewn round her, waiting to pour 
out my tea, just as 1 had pictured her, with timid rapture, a hun- 
dred times, during the months 1 had courted her so reverently; and 
my wife sitting under a tree on the lawn facing the window, Jim 
cuddled up in her arms, and Sir 'Wiliiam Hernshaw’s bold dark 
eyes looking into hers with undisguised admiration.' 

1 started from my seat with a sudden desire to kick him then and 
there out of my grounds, when Edith, divining my movement, in- 
terposed. 

“ Paul, Paul, for Heaven’s sake, restrain yourself! Think of the 
shame, the scandal that would tollow; and she means no harm, I’m 
sure Ob, indeed, I’m sure of that! I've not had the opportunity 
of speaking to her, but--” 

” Do not seek the opportunity,” 1 interrupted, fiercely: ” it would 
be of no use. 1 will speak to her; but I think— 1 think she must be 
losing her head. I can t make out what possesses her. 1 married 
her, as 1 thought, a harmlcvss, innocent child— married her 
through — ” 

” Pity, generosity, through the noblest spirit of self-sacrifice. Oh, 
1 guess the story of your courtship, and your marriage, my poor 
Paul! 1 have guessed it some time, and it has not helped to make 
my lot lighter, to reconcile me to what 1 lost in losing the— the love 
of one of the truest, noblest — Ah, what am 1 saying — what am 1 
saying?” she cried, covering her face with her hands and shrink- 
ing from me. ” VVhen 1 see you treated like this, 1 — 1 can’t help 
it, my heart speaks out. Oh, go away— go away! Do not look at 
me, please.” 

J was about to leave the room when a servant entered and handed 
me a letter. After reading it, 1 laid it silently before my com- 
panion. When she had read it she turned to me with burning face 
and sobbed faintly — 

” 1 wish I were dead — oh, 1 wish 1 were dead!” 

‘‘Plush, hush,” 1 whispered; “you — you must not say that! 
To-night, Edie; it must be.” 

She shivered. 

“ You- -you will be with me, Paul? Y’ou will not leave me?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was dawn — a cold misty dawn — as 1 stepped, with muffled 
tread, to my dressing-room. 1 stopped and looked at my sleeping 
wife, and, as 1 looked, the ghastly idea struck me that 1 was not 
looking into the features of a sleeping, but of a dead woman. The 
stony rigid repose, the waxen color uf the skin, the fixed look of 
pain about the drawn mouth, all seemed to confirm my fear, until, 
leaning closer, a faint breath fanned my cheek and she moaned 
feebly. 1 stole away, swallowed a glass of brandy, threw myself 
upon a couch in my dressing-room, and soon sunk into an uneasy 
doze. Helen’s sleeping face haunted me. I dreamed she was lying 
dead on the cliff w^here we had so often sat together, and that when 


MY POOR WIFE. 


95 


1 Stooped to litt her body in my arms, a pair of bony bands closed 
beicely round my throat, strangling my cries foi mercy, dragged 
me to the edge ot the cliff, where 1 fiercely struggled for my life. 
The hands 1 knew belonged to old Molly Griffin; but the face 
glowering over me was young 'William Hernshaw’s, distorted with 
passion. At last, with a violent wrench, I freed one arm, and, seiz- 
ing the hand pressing my throat, awoke to find Helen leaning over 
me, dragging her wrist from my clutch. 

1 looked at her stupidly tor a second. 

“ 1—1 am doing you no harm,” she said, her eyes dickering and 
glaring at me stealthily. “ 1 came to see why— why — you had not 
come to bed. Let me go, let me go, I say— you hurt me.” 

I at once dropped her hand, and she ran quickly away to her own 
room. 

1 did not see her again until breakfast, when she appeared in a. 
lively talkative mood and civilly disposed toward both Edith and 
me, though she never once looked us in the face, but kept her eyes 
almost closed or fastened to her plate. After giving some house- 
hold orders, she went out, and, standing by the window of my 
study, i watched her for some time pacing a retired corner of the 
kitchen-garden with a swift monotonous stride; at last the move- 
ment became so repugnant to me that, scarcely heeding what 1 was 
doing, 1 threw open the window and called out to herf 

” Helen, I’m going to the club this morning; haven’t you any 
shopping to do? The dog- cart will be round in bait an hour.” 

“No, none,” she answered, after a moment’s pause. “ Besides, 
I have an engagemenf this afiernoon. Ask Miss Stopford; she is 
sure to have some shopping to do.” 

She had, and we started presently, returning very hot and dusty 
late in the afternoon to find that Helen had failed to keep her en- 
gagement, which Edith casually informed me was a drive to the 
flower-show at Brierswood with Sir VYilliam Hernshaw. 

“It was so hot, 1 felt too lazy to dress; 1 hope you had a pleas- 
ant drive,” she said drowsily, her eyelashes still sweeping her 
cheeks. 

“ Almost unbearable coming back,” 1 answered, throwing myself 
upon a seat by the open window. “ 1 am nearly choked with dust; 
1 feel I could swallow a quart of claret and soda.” 

“ I’ll get you some,” said Helen, going towwd the dining-room, 
and presently returning with a cool frothing tumbler, which she 
lianded to me and then stood behind my chair. 

1 turned, laid my hand on her arm, and said gently: 

“ Helen, tell me what is the matter with you. Why will you not 
look at me — wife?” 

She did not move or answer a word, though 1 repeated my in- 
quiry almost coaxingly, as one would question a pettish wayward 
child. 

I withdrew my hand and lifted, sighing wearily, the glass, when 
suddenly, with a low cry, she dashed it from my lips, the liquid 
squirting up into my face, flowing down my shirt and collar, and 
streaming on to the carpet, where the glass lay broken. 

Stung to the quick by the insulting violence of the act, 1 sprung 
to ray feet, glaring speechlessly at her until Edith, w'hose presence 


96 


MY POOR AVIFE. 


1 was not aware of, ran eagerly toward me and passed her hand- 
kerchief over my wet face and neck. 

“ How dare you?” 1 stammered hoarsely. What do you mean? 
Are you mad?” 

Helen burst into a wild loud laugh. 

Yes, yes, mad— mad as a March hare — mad — mad— the maddest 
wife ever a true husband had. Oh, my poor head — my poor head 
— it aches — it aches! A breath of sea air would do it good— a breath 
of sea air!” she moaned, listlessly moving away. 

1 went out too, for even Edie’s soft touch and pitying eyes were 
more than 1 could bear. Ordering my horse, 1 gave him his head, 
rode across country as if following the swiftest hounds that ever 
ran a fox to earth. 1 knew not whither or how far 1 went; it was 
night when the poor brute, lame, foot-sore, crawled up the avenue 
again. Edith was waiting for me on the door-step, and led me 
into the dining-room, where a tempting supper was laid. 

“Eat, eat,” she said; ‘‘you look thoroughly exhausted, poor 
dear.” 

‘‘ She,” 1 began nervously. 

■“ She has been perfectly quiet ever since, locked up in her loom. 
Don’t trouble about her now; she’ll be all right to-morrow, you’ll 
find. JNow, dear boy, to sup{>ei, please. I— 1 have not eaten any- 
thing myself since you left, so you must keep me in countenance, 
please.” 

The next morning 1 was awakened from a deep dreamless sleep 
by the housekeeper, Mrs. Murray— a valued and trusted servant 
who had served the family for nearly forty years— rousing me vio- 
lently, 

“ What is it?” 1 asked, sitting up in my bed with a vague feel- 
ing of apprehension. “ Has anything happened?” 

” Hush, hush. Master Paul.” she said agitatedly, “ we must keep 
it quiet as long as we can. Something has happened. She has 
gone. ' ’ 

“ My wife?” 

” Yes; w^hen 1 went into her room this morning 1 found it empty, 
and the bed not slept in; she is not in any part of the house or 
grounds. That is all 1 can tell you.’' 

Urging her to keep the other servants in ignorance if possible, 1 
dressed hurriedly, and, my mind distracted with wrath, suspicion, 
vague terror and jealousy, sought in vain for any trace of my un- 
fortunate wife. She had disappeared completely without leaving a 
note or message; no one had seen or heard her quit the house, and, 
after a guarded inquiry at the station, 1 ascertained that she had 
not beeii observed by either guards or station-master taking any of 
the morning or late night trains. Toward midday, feverish with 
anxiety, entirely baffled, I returned home. Calling Mrs. Murray, 1 
begged her to get my portmanteau ready, as 1 was leaving at once. 

” Where to — what are you going to do— tell me. Master Paul?” 
she pleaded, with a shaking voice. 

“I’m giing after him,” I answered, chokingly; “don’t bother 
me, woman, but get my things— quick!” 

“ Him— who's him?” 

“ Hernshaw; he left the Grange last night.” 


MY POOR WIPE. 


97 


“ Well, well, sir, you know your own business best; but 1 think 
you’re going on a fool’s errand after him. I’d look elsewhere if I 
were you.” ~ 

1 seized her hands as a drowning man would a straw. 

“ Elsewhere?” 1 repeated. “ What do you mean? Murray, 
Murray, you know, you guess where she is? Oh, don’t keep me in 
supsense! If you knew what horrible thoughts torture me!” 

“ 1 know no no ore than you, sir, where she is,” she interrupted, 
sadly. By ‘ elsewhere ’ 1 think 1 meant somewhere near the sea. 
For the last week she’s been talking about the sea, and sea-gulls, 
and rocks, and things o’ the kind, and complaining of a pain in her 
head and a mistiness over her eyes.” 

‘‘Of course, of course,” 1 broke in, eagerly. “What a short- 
sighted, dull fool I’ve been! She’s gone to Donegal! I’ll start after 
her at once and bring her home before tales get about. Murray, 1 
rely on you—” 

“You may, sir; I’ll do my best, never fear,”. she said, impres- 
sively, laying her hand on my arm to detain me. “ But— but, Mas- 
ter Paul, forgive me saying what 1 am going to say. Having 
known me from your cradle, and, as it were, playing the part of 
mother to you when your own was taken so young — ” 

“ Fire ahead!” 1 burst in, impatiently. “You know you can 
say what you like to me, Murray.” 

“Then, Mastei Paul,” she whispered, hurriedly, “take my ad- 
vice, and before you bring your wife home, send the other away.” 

“Murray!” 1 stammered, releasing myself. “What nonsense 
you talk! It’s — it’s you who are on the wrong tack now. Ed— 
Miss Stopford’s presence here has had nothing to do with the un- 
fortunate misunderstanding with my poor wife — how could it?” 

The old woman laughed bitterly, and moved away, snaking her 
head. I pursued her uneasily. 

“ Listen to me, and 1 11 convince you. Helen never knew, never 
even suspected that 1 — 1 had once cared for Miss Stopford. She 
believed I looked upon her as a sister whom 1 was brought up with; 
she never objected to her staying here, indeed she went at once to 
the general the moment the visit was suggested; never show^ed the 
faintest sign of —of dislike or jealousy. Oh, do stop nodding that 
ridiculous gray old head of yours!” 1 burst out impatiently. “ Say 
what you mean and have done with it.” 

“ Blind, blind, blind!” she repeated, looking at me with pitying 
reproach. “ Your wife knew you loved Miss Edith the first day 
you met her here', and, though she has been fighting against the 
knowledge — trying to deceive herself — it has been of no use; day 
atler day the truth has been burning into her poor heart, turning 
her very brain— until she could bear it no longer, and now she has 
fled from her pain.” 

“It this be true,” 1 muttered hoarsely, “as sure as there is a 
heaven above I had not the faintest — at least not a reasonable or 
tangible— suspicion of such a thing being the case. How — how 
should I? She — she never complained — never reproached me — ” 

“ But she loved you. Master Paul — loved you as few men are 
loved by women — even by the truest or best of them. You had no 
reasonable suspicion of that, had you? Ah, no, no! And, loving 


98 


MY POOR WIFE. 


you as she did, how could you expect her not to see what every- 
visitor who came to the house, every servant about the place, saw 
and commented on?” 

” What did they see — confound them?” 1 blustered wrathfully. 

” Saw that you were keeping a sweetheart and a wife under one 
roof,” the old servant retorted bluntiy; ‘‘saw your face brighten 
when you looked at the one, neard your voice soften when you- 
spoke to her; saw you passing notes to one another, riding togetW, 
slipping away together ten times a day; meeting after dark, whis- 
pering together. Ah, Master Paul, Master Paul, does not your con- 
science this moment tell you what they saw and what fongs the 
color into your face so cruel hot this minute? There — I’ve’ spoken 
out as you bade me, and I’ve said too much, 1 dare say ; but I 
couldn’t help it. Send me about my business, if you like. I 
couldn’t help it; it was wrong — wrong!” 

"Without vouchsafing a reply, I seized my portmanteau, and flung 
it into the dog-carf waiting to take me to the station. 

The next evening, worn out with suspense and anxiety, I sighted 
the old farm-house on the hill. 

Mrs. Casey was ill in bed, Mike informed me, and could see na 
one, no matter how urgent or important their business. She knew 
nothing whatever of my wife, had not seen her since she took my 
name, or heard from her within the last three months, she begged 
me to go away and let her leave this world in peace. She wished 
to be troubled no more with the affairs of this world, and, if 1 in- 
sisted on forcing myself into her presence, would refuse to ffive mo 
speech. 

1 walked slowly away and stood on the edge of the cliff staring, 
out to sea, wondering whither to turn, what to do next, when old 
Molly touched my elbow, and turning to her, hope and relief light- 
ened me in a flash. 

” Molly, you bring me news. She is with you,” 1 began eagerly, 
and then stopped short as she mournfully shook her head. 

‘‘ Ko,” she said, taking the pipe from her mouth, ” 1 bring ye no- 
news. 1 only heard half an hour ago what had happened. And. 
th’ould wan wouldn’t see ye, wouldn’t she? 1 was after thinkin’ 
she wouldn’t.” 

‘‘You know nothing; you can not help me?” I repeated blankly.. 
” Oh. don’t say that!” 

” ISothing, my lad — nothing. She hasn’t been here, an’ 1 don’t 
think she’ll come now, poor little thing; ye began to ill-use her soon 
enough. Heaven knows! Well, well, I’m not surprised. 1 thought, 
it would all end that way; but not so soon — oh, not so cruel soon!” 
she repeated, with a harsh laugh. “Ye might have spared her for 
wan year at the laist, for she loved ye true.” 

“Molly,” 1 cried vehemently, “you — you don’t understand. 
J./isten to me! 1—1 tell you 1 would give every farthing 1 possess, 
my life itself, to find her now sate and well and— and teach her to 
forgive me! Do not judge me so harshly; but help me, for there’s- 
not a moment to be lost!’"^ 

“ I’ll help ye as well as 1 can,” she said, after a searchinglance, 

“ for 1 see ye’re sorry, but I’m afeard my help won’t go fdr. 8it 


MY POOR WIFE. 99 

down beside me, an’ I’ll tell ye her mother’s story to begin with, it 
ye haven’t heerd it already belike.” 

” Her mother died when she was an infant, she told me.” 

Ay. When she was four days old her mother stole out o’ the 
bed one wild nigut in November, an’ flung herself from the stone 
on which yer sittin’ down to the beach below. She was picked up 
in the bay next mornin’ by the boys cornin’ home from the fishin’, 
every bone in her body broke to bits— as cruel a sight as iver me 
ould eyes tell on. I couldn’t get it out o’ me sight for months 
after.” 

‘‘ Great heavens! Was it an accident, or do you mean she com- 
mitted suicide?” 

” Suicide, ay, that’s what they called it— 1 didn’t remimber the 
word until ye mentioned it — ‘ suicide while in a state of trumpery 
insanity ’ was the jury’s verdick. For nigh on six months afore 
poor little Helen came into the wurild her mother was a hopeless 
Ijiot, that ought to have been locked up safe in a ’sylum, as 1 ought 
to know well.” 

‘‘ Great heavens! And this was kept from me — intentionally kept 
by that wretched old woman who flaunts her religion—” 

” Charity an’ religion begins at home with wan o’ her kind. It 
she had toiild you, the chances are ye’d have sloped ofl an’ left on 
her hands a burden she hated an’ had fretted against sore for the 
last eighteen year. She saw Her chance and didn’t let it slip. Who’d 
be after blamin’ her, when ye come to think of it?” 

” The madness was inherited in the family, 1 mean?” 1 asked, 
with sullen bitterness. 

‘‘ No, it wasn’t. Sorra a Casey 1 ever heard of bein’ took that 
way before or since.” 

” What was the cause of it?” 

” Sorrow, treachery, cruelty, an’ wrong, them was the cause of it 
— wrong such as ’ud drive women o’ my kind by degrees to the 
whisky bottle an’ the county jail, but which, in wan summer’s day, 
turned poor Nora Casey from a light-hearted sunny lass into, as 
I’ve already tould ye, a broodin’, hopeless ijiot!” 

‘‘ Tell me all about it; nothing must be kept back from me now. 
What was the mother’s story? Quick!” 

” Aisy, aisy. I’ll tell it ye soon enough,” remonstrated Molly, 
soothingly, squatting herself on the ground, her hands clasping her 
knees. ” Nora was the ould wan’s only daughter, an’ the young- 
est o’ the family; when the boys all went their ways she had to re- 
main at home. She was me nurse-child, and as purty a girl as ye’d 
care to meet in a day’s walk, and as like her daughter as two peas, 
only brighter an’ more winnin’ in her ways, an’ never wid that 
broodin’ heavy look Miss Helen often had. She was let grow up 
just as yer wife was, with no eddication or care or lookin’ after 
than it she was thrown on the wurrld without a sowl of her own. 
She used to wander about the mountains all day long, and in course 
of time met a scoundrel. 

” He had come in a grand yacht that anchored in the bay. Every 
day he used to meet her somewhere or other, an’ soon won her 
heart, for he was handsome an’ elegant, like no wan she’d ever met 
before. One day he tould her to meet him next night at elev^en 


100 


MY POOR WIFE. 


o’clock in St. Brigid’s ruined church beyond the point below, an^ 
that he would have a minister to marry them, making her swear she 
was to tell no wan, for if it was known he was about to marry a poor 
girl he’d be ruined for life. But after a few months he said he was 
to come in for a large fortune and be his own master, an’ then he’d 
bring her to his home in England an’ introjuce her to his people. 

“ Poor Nora believed him an’ went to the Abbey, where sure 
enough there was a minister all in white ready to make them wan. 
She &pl the saycret safe, poor sowl, an’, when the cow Id rain and 
the bleak winds came, he sailed away in his yacht, an’ alter he’d 
been a couple of months gone news came wan day from Droom- 
league that he had been married over in England to some grand 
lady with a lot of money the week before. But Miss Nora only 
laughed when she heard it, an’ didn’t seem in the laist put out, 
though 1 watched her close, suspectin’ there was somethin’ between, 
them, though not the cruel truth. Heaven knows. 

“ Well, just three days after we heard the rumor, a letther came 
to Miss Nora inclosin’ a check for hfty pounds, and tellin’ her that 
the marriage up at the ould church hadn’t been a rale one at all, 
that the minister was only his valet dressed up, as he’d dare say 
she’d suspected all along. An’ he was mortal sorry he had to give 
her up; but hard necessity obliged him to marry his present wife, 
to whom he had been engaged for the last two years, an’ be begged 
her pardon an’ wished her well an’ would never forget or cease to 
love his dear little mountain maid. That was all. 

“ When she'd read it an’ understood it at last, she went ragin’ 
through the house like a madwoman, the letter in her hands; an’ 
when her mother read it too, an’ learnt the cruel story for the first 
time, she just opened her halldoor, an’ wid her own hard hands- 
Ihrust the poor maddened craythure out into the could night an’ 
bade her never cross the dooislep of the house she had disgraced. 
It wasn’t until the middle of the next day we heard what had been 
done; an’ me ould man an’ me, wid our hearls in our mouths, set 
out to sarch for her. We didn’t find her until the evening after, 
thirty miles away, lyin’ in a ditch half famished and frozen, her 
poor wits complaitly gone! 

“ AVe brought her home, coaxed an’ nursed her as well as we 
couM, but she sat all day long, on a stool before the fire, shiverin’ 
and not seeming to hear or understand a word that was goin’ on. 
We thought that perhaps when her pool* child came. Heaven would: 
see fit to give her back her senses, but it wasn’t so; an’ in less than 
a week after Helen was born her mother one night stole out of her 
bed and threw herself from the cliffs down to the beach below, 
where, as I’ve told ye, her body was picked up next day. That’s^ 
her story.” 

After a few minutes, 1 looked up to whisper brokenly— 

” And her — her daughter, you mean to say she inherited— you 
mean i— 1 married a—” 

‘ ‘ Her daughter, ” she interrupted eagerly, “grew up in me 
keepin' like every other child I reared; there was nothin’ particular 
about her, except that she was a bit quieter an’ aisier to mind than 
most babbies maybe. When she was three year old, her granny 
took her from me; whether because she was touched with remorse^ 


MY POOR WIPE. 


101 


or because of the ill-will and sharp tongues o' the neighbors— some 
o’ the daylers at Droomleague refusin’ to buy the praties she sent 
into market— 1 can’t say; but, at any rate, she took her and kep’ 
her until you came.” 

“Molly, Molly, you mean to tell me you saw no signs of the 
mother’s disease— that you believe her to be free— free from — \jh, 
for Heaven’s sake hide nothing from me now ! 1 have been used 
basely enough among you all. You must tell me everything no»v 
— everything!” I cried, roughly seizing her hands. 

“ I saw nothing wrong about her— nothing, 1 tell you, until, un- 
til, as had luck would have it, when she was a slip of a girl of 
fifteen, she heard her mother’s story, an’ it certainly — 1 won’t deceive 
you, sir — preyed on her a sight. She had a bad fever, an’ raved a 
lot, always talking about the say and the shore, wishin’ she was a 
mermaid under the water, and a lot like that. She several timea 
tried to get out of her bed and go outside; an’ we had some trouble 
in holdin’her down. An’ when she recovered, she told me she was 
sorry she didn’t die, as she was no use to any wan in the wurrld, an’ 
her granny was disappointed she didn’t die, too. Well, for some 
time afther, 1 must say a sort of shiver always came over me when 
1 saw her walkin’ too close to the edge of the cliffs; but by dagrees 
the feelin* wore away, an’ she became almost herself again.” 

“ Then, Molly, Molly,” I whispered piteously, “ you— you havo 
no fear about her now? You feel she is safe — safe -only hiding, 
from me in a fit of temper. 1—1 will be sure to hear from her in a 
day or two at the furthest; you have no apprehension — no — ” 

1 stopped, for Molly turned her head away, and, with her hands 
shading her eyes, stared mutely out to sea. 1 remember feeling the 
ground si^rge strangely under me, seeing the stony beach where poor 
Kora’s mangled body lay move slowly out with the receding wave, 
and a lurid darkness creeping over the clear sunlight; it was only 
for a moment. 1 shook oft the dizziness, staggered to my feet, ta 
find a ragged boy holding an orange envelope toward me. 

“ A telegram! She is found!” 

“ She is found — where— where?” gasped Molly, seizing my arm. 

“ It does not say. The message is from my housekeeper, telling: 
me they have news; 1 am to come at once. That’s all.” 

******•}? 

Twenty-four hours later 1 was standing in the hall at home, Mrs. 
Murray’s hand resting on my shaking arm. 

“ Hush, hush!” she said, in ansprer to my incoherent inquiries. 
“ In a moment — in a moment I’ll tell you all. Come into the study. 
Master Paul. I’ve a letter you must read first.” 

1 followed her in; she laid an envelope, directed to me in my 
wife’s writing in my hand. 

“ It was found inside your desk a few hours after you left. 1— I 
don’t know how you missed seeing it.” 

1 broke the seal, and read the following slowly twice through: 

“ Paul, I followed you last night into the wood when you thought 
1 was sleeping quietly in my bed. 1 saw in your arms the woman, 
you love, 1 heard you begging her to give up home, fortune, fam- 
ily, fame, and fly to the other end of the world with you, for you 
could not and would not live another day apart from her. Aud as 


102 


MY POOR WIFE. 


I listened to you the curse which had hung over me even before 1 
came into the world suddenl}^ tell. 

" The dark, still air became thick with a thousand laces 1 had 
never seen before, yet w^hich 1 seerced to Know as well as 1 knew 
yours; voices whispered in my ears; lights, red, blue, yellow, 
danced before my eyes; a breath of rushing buoyant life filled my 
body ; 1 felt as if 1 could have flown round the world forever and 
known no fatigue, all the fever, anguish, struggle and horror of the 
past week died in me, a horrible exultation took their place. 

“ 1 felt that the supreme moment of my life had come, the mo- 
ment for which 1 had been born, lived, and sufltered until then. I 
felt that if 1 could not kill you my brain would burst. 1 rushed 
forward blindly, stumbled over the trunk of a tree, and came to the 
ground, where 1 lay stunned for a few moments. When 1 rose, 
you had gone. 

“ 1 went back to my bed, slept for some time, and awoke at dawn 
with the murderous fever on me fiercer than before. 1 stole into 
your room, Paul — 1, your wife, the nameless daughter of a mad 
mother, who had deceived you basely, lobbed you of peace, happi- 
ness, honor and love, yet who had received nothing in return from 
you but countless benefits, infinite forbearance, noblest patience. I 
leaned over you as you slept, a razor pressed to your throat. The 
touch of the steel or the fire of my murderous breath awoke you. 
ITou looked at me calmly, and 1 slunk away cowed, loathing myself, 
cursing the day that gave life to such a wretch as 1. 

‘ ‘ All that morning I knelt by your pillow in an agony of 
shame, of remorse, praying for strength to leave you before you 
would guess my horrible secret. Strength seemed to come, 1 rose 
to go when you were driving up the avenue with her. I went to the 
window to take my farewell look; you were standing in the porch 
together whispering eagerly, her hand was clasping yours. 1 strug- 
gled fiercely for a moment, but passion overmastered me again. 1 
ran quickly down to your study, unlocked a drawer where 1 had 
seen you hide a packet of vermin-poison one day, and poured il into 
the glass of wine you asked for. You took it unsuspiciously; and 
when it was half way to your lips you turned with a smile and a 
kind word to me — and, thank Heaven, 1 was able to dash it from 
your hands — thank Heaven, thank Heaven! 

“ And now 1 go from you, Paul, forever, with a prayer on my 
lips and in my guilty heart for your peace and welfare. Be happy 
with her you love, and forget the wretched woman who deceived 
you. Put her from your memory and your life as if she had never 
been. Now, 1 can write no more— my hand shakes; strange lights 
are burning before my eyes; a torturing thirst consumes me, though 
I hear the splashing of cool water every w here around. 1 must go — 
oh, love, love, how can 1 write Farewell?” 

The paper fell from my hands. 1 turned wildly to Mrs. Murray. 

“ Where is she, where is she? Let me go to her at once. 1 tell 
you, she is desperate, maddened; there is not a moment to lose!” 

Mrs. Murray, with her hands to her eyes, answered with a weak 
whimper. 1 rushed toward the door, and then became aw’are for 
the first time that the room was full of familiar faces — my Uncle 
Oerard from Kibton, my two cousins from Leamington, General 


MY POOR WIFE. 103' 

Stopford, Dr. Finlay, and some others 1 had not the power to recog- 
nize. 

“My dear boy, wait a moment, just a moment, pleaded my^ 
uncle, his hand grasping my aim. “We will give you all the par- 
ticulars we have gleaned. Don’t — don’t be afraid. Unfortunately' 
up to the present we — we nave no reliable clew to youi wife’s where- 
abouts more than the letter has probably given you; but we hope— 

“ There’s her hat — the hat she alv/ays wears in the garden; it. 
looks all wet and muddy — she must have dropped it in the grass. 
Give it to me — give it to me! Finlay, what on eaith have you jing- 
ling there? It— it looks— ” 

“ 1 don’t know what it is; do you recognize it, Mr. Dennys?” he 
answered, holding up a block of bruised metal from which hung a. 
light rusted chain entangled in a rag of blue ribbon. 

“ That rubbish?— no. At first in the shade there 1 thought it 
looked not unlike a steel girdle and clmtelaine my wife wears— one 
that 1 bought her at the Palais Royal last spring. I— 1 don’t know 
what put it into my head. Give me the hat. Where was it found ?^ 
Answer me, answer me! Are you all struck dumb?” 

Then they told me, two or three of them taking up one another 
nervously, that the hat was picked up the morning before by the 
children of the Grange lodge in a bed of rushes down the river ;*^ that 
the big chain and mass of metal had been found twisted round the 
big wheel of the Red Mill, and that it was recognized by Carter, my 
wife’s maid, as part of the chatelaine she undoubtedly wore the day 
she disappeared. 

“ You— you wish me to understand that my wife went down the 
river under the mill machinery like the girl long ago? Y’ou— you. 
want me to believe that? Great Heavens!” 

“ My dear boy— no, no. As long as there is no further confirma- 
tion, of course we — we must hope for the besi; but— but you see,, 
unfortunately the night was dark, and the river unusually stvollen; 
it is so dangerous down by that broken bridge, so easy to miss one’s- 
footing in the — the — 1 say, catch him, catch him! Oh, poor 
fellow, he’s falling!” 

1 savr their faces crowding round me; the room seemed to heave 
convulsively, and then 1 remembered nothing more tor many weeks.. 


CHAPTER V. 

One cold gusty evening in October, seven years after the pen had 
fallen from Paul Dennys’ hand, two women, wearing the garb of 
the good Sisters of Nazareth, wended their way across the little 
country church-yard of Colworth, and stood silently before a while 
marble cross, bearing the following inscription: 

“ Sacred to the memory of Helen, the beloved wife of Paul 
Dennys, of Colworth, who died 22d of July, 187-, aged 19.” 

It stood a tew yards away from the huge stone monument under 
which generations of Dennyses slept, the reeds and rushes from tho 
river, flowing close by, rustling mournfully around it, making the* 
spot so dismal and ghostly that the elder sister, a woman of a vigor- 


104 


MY POOK WIFE. 


ous and unimaginative disposition, shuddered involuntarily and ex* 
claimed, halt- pettishly to her silent companion: 

“ Well, sister, is our journey at an end? Is this the spot we have 
traveled over two hundred miles to v^isit?” 

“Yes. 1 wanted to know if this Helen Dennys was buried here, 
and 1 find she is. 1 am ready lo go back now, Sister Agatha, when 
you wish.” She stooped to pick a spray ot ivy growing round the 
cross, held it in her hand irresolutely^for a moment, then flung it into 
the river, and moved heavily away. 

“No; wait a moment, and rest yourself — you look quite ex- 
hausted. Don’t sit on the grass, child; do you wish to get your 
■death of cold? Sit here on the slab beside me,’^ cried Sister Agatha, 
laying a motherly hand on her companion’s shoulder. 

She obeyed, tossing back her heavy crape veil, and lifted a wan, 
listless face to the low murky sky. 

“ Poor Helen!” she sighed, presently, with a weak laugh. “ They 
haven’t given her a very dry bed, have they? They might have 
moved her in a little further, even though it were only her memory 
moldering there.” 

Sister Agatha made no reply, but read aloud the inscription, com- 
menting softly, “ Aged nineteen. That was young to bid good-bye 
to earthly happiness. Was this Helen a relation— any one you loved 
— Sister Clothiide?” 

“ 1 knew her all her life; though she died young in years, she was 
old in sorrow.” 

“ And yet she was beloved.” 

“ So the stone says— so the stone says. Oh, sister, sister,” burst 
out the young nun, with a sudden bitter cry, “ ot all the lies, uttered 
or recorded in this world of lies, there are none— none, 1 say — so 
shameful, so barefaced as those that defile the grave-yards of our 
land!” 

“ Hush, hush, my dear sister!” reproved the elder, in a shocked 
voice. “ Pray, pray compose yourself— you do not know what you 
are saying; how unbecoming — ” 

“ Let me speak, let me speak now. It will do me good, and 1 
will be silent after that for the rest of my life! Let me tell you the 
story of the ‘ beloved ’ wife who lies here; it will do me good.” 

“ Very well, my dear, if it will ease your mind, 1 will listen,” she 
answered, soothingly, looking at her companion with keen, anxious 
glance. 

“ It’s not a long story, and a commonplace one enough. She— 
that Helen — lived up in that red house the chimneys of which you 
can see smoking among the trees, and she believed herself beloved 
as that cross asserts she was; but in a verji sliort time she found out 
her mistake — found out her husband had only married her out of 
pique and disappointment — that he loved another woman fairer than 
she. Her rival came to stay in the house with her: the wife was 
tried, tortured, maddened to despair, and one day she disappeared 
from her home, leaving a letter saying she had gone never to return. 
No trace was found of her, but after a few days sufficient evidence 
was forthcoming to lead her husband to believe that she had been 
drowned in that river flowing there under the wall, and her body 
ground to pieces in some mill machinery half a mile further down.” 


MY POOR WIFE. 105 

“ What a horrible story! Poor soul~poor soul! Was it proved 
tD be accidental or — or otherwise?” 

‘‘ That no one will know until tbe all things will be made 
known. They have not judge her harshly here; let not us do other- 
wise.” 

” And the husband, sister?” 

” He— the story says— went raving about the country seeking her^ 
at first, as if he had lost the treasure of his life, and, five months- 
after her death, married her rival.” 

“ Five months?” 

“Five months. They live very happily together now, sur- 
rounded with their children. That’s the whole story, and it ends in 
the orthodox style with a happy marriage, you see. Now let us go,, 
or we shall miss our train.” 

With a glance toward the chimneys. Sister Agatha put her arm 
within her companion’s, and they walked quickly and silently 
through the long wet grass, over the old bridge above the mill, to 
the station half a mile away.' When they arrived there the up-train 
was slowly nmving away from the platform, and to their dismayed 
inquiries the station-master informed them there would not be an- 
other until 11.15. It was then only half-past seven. Four dreary 
hours stretched before them, to be got rid of — how? Sister Agatha,, 
who had been up the three preceding nights n ursine: the sick, and 
who had a week of hard work before her, prior to her departure for 
New Zealand, where, she, her companion, and three other nuns were 
going to found a convent, lost no time in making up her mind how 
to dispose of the time before them. Seating herself in a retired 
corner of the wailing-room, she fell into a heavy sleep after having 
urged her com panion to follow her example. 

Clothilde tried to do so, but it was in vain, sleep would not come. 
Visions of past days, past happiness, hope, and sorrow floated be- 
fore her — voices she had loved before she left the world sounded in 
her ears. 

When the last train from town arrived, the quiec station became a 
scene of bustle and excitement — porters, guards, passengers flitted 
hurriedly by, doors were slammed; but Sister Agatha slept placidly 
through it all, and her companion, drawing her thicR veil over her 
hideous funnel-shaped bonnet, shrunk further into her corner. 
Twm or three travelers invaded the room for a moment, then hurried 
out, and the train slowly moved on. Clothilde had just pushed 
aside her stifling veil, when the door opened again, and a plump un- 
gloved hand, sparkling with diamonds, thrust two children hastily 
in, a gay vibrating voice that sent the blood rushing to the nun’s, 
white face, calling out: 

“ Children, stay there until nurse comes to fetch you; don’t at- 
tempt to leave this room. Percy, take care of your sister, do you 
hear?” 

“ Don’t be afraid, Cissy, I’ll taKe care of you,” said the boy, a 
beautiful child of about five with golden curls falling about his- 
face. “ The room is dark, but—” 

“Who are you? What’s your name? Tell me quick— quick— I 
must know!” 

The little fellow started back, threw his arm round his sister, as 


106 


MY POOR WIFE. 


Re stared awe-strucK into the white face and burning eyes ot a wom- 
an in a long black cloak towering over him, a woman he had never 
seen before, yet whom he knew perfectly on the moment — the white 
witch of Carving Knife Cave w^ho sucked the blood ot crying chil- 
dren, that nurse told them about when they were naughty. 

“ Your names? Y’our names?’' she panted, her hot breath stirring 
the curls on nis face. 

“lam Percy Edward Stoptord Dennys of Col worth, and this is 
my sister Edith Cicely Stopford Dennys, and— oh,” quavered the 
child, his hands clasped entreatingly, “ if you will let us off this 
time, w^e will never — never be naughty again/ never stick pins into 
Reggie, or get out of our cots in the night, or — ” 

“ flush — hush! 1 am not going to touch you. Go away — away 
into that corner near the door. Don’t speak to me— don’t look at 
me again, and you are safe. Go — go!’.’ 

1 hey went; and Helen Dennys, who was supposed to have been 
drowned seven years ago, sunk back into her seat and covered her 
face with her hands in a passion of despair and stormy revolt, al- 
most as fierce as that which swept her the morning she tried to take 
her husband’s life. 

Presently the door opened again, and a portly nurse, laden with a 
gorgeously-clad baby, waddled in, speedily followed by the owner 
of the gay voice and begemmed fingers, namely, Mrs. Dennys of 
Colworth, a stately well-conditioned lady, on whose lovely bloom- 
ing face not the faintest trace of shame, remorse, regret lingered — 
a face that was the embodiment of supreme self-satisfaction and 
unshadowed prosperity. Helen looked into it long and deeply with 
hungry eyes; then turned to the wall, when a shower of hot tears 
dimmed her sight. 

“1 tell you, llalpin, the box is somewhere in the station; the 
porter distinctly saw it being lifted out of the last train, and 1 won’t 
leave the station until it is found. 1 really never met such a help- 
less and stupid woman as you; it is unbearable!” cried Mrs. Dennys 
angrily, stamping her foot. 

“ Hullo, hullo, wife, what’s the storm about?” interposed a man’s 
voice. “ Is halt your nursery missing, or what?” 

“ My bonnet-box from Elise’s is missing, Mr. Dennys, and 1 am 
telling Halpin that I won’t leave the station until it is forthcoming; 
I’ll not have the histor 3 " of my emerald bracelet repeated.” 

Mr. Dennys made a half -soothing, halt-bantering reply; at the 
same time sezing his little girl, he perched her on his shoulder. The 
child clung to him fearfully, her eyes fixed upon the dark figure, 
which nobody seemed to notice. 

Helen’s lip‘s moved in incoherent terrified prayer, her hands 
pressed to her eyes. 

“Help me, help me, O Heaven!” she prayed. “Oh, do not 
desert me after my seven years’ struggle, don’t let my sacrifice be 
all in vain! I have suffered, 1 have struggled! Oh, for pity’s sake 
help rue now, or 1 — 1 ruin— ruin him 1 love! Paul, Paul, if you 
love your wife, your little children, your happy home, go — go quick 
before my strength leaves me, before 1 look at you — before 1 look 
at you again. ” 

.She leaned forward rocking herself to and fro in the fever of 


MY POOR WIPE. 


107 


temptation, moaning teebly, until some one touched her upraised 
arm and her hand fell instinctively. Edith’s husband was standing: 
beside her, speaking to her. 

“ I beg your pardon, madam, there is a parcel under your seat. 
Would you allow me to see it' it is the one we are looking for? l^o,. 
it is not; thanks. I am sorry for disturbing you.” 

He moved away, not a gleam of recognition in his face, and she 
looked after him dumbly, her hands lying on her lap. 

j\.t first she could not see him plainly tor a red mist shrouding her* 
eyes; hut it passed away, and he stood clear before her, a man in 
the prime of life, stalwart and shapely, with a handsome sunny face 
as irtsouciant, free from remorse and care as Edith’s own, a man 
whom the world used well, who had obeyed her last request in the 
spirit as well as the letter. Changed; oh, so little changed since the 
summer days long ago, when she watched him tramping through 
the heather to her — her god among men — a little fuller in the body 
and redder in face, but otherwise unchanged, unchanged! 

As she looked, the prayer for help died on her lips, the tumult in 
her heart ceased, and she knew Edith's husband was at that mo- 
ment as sale from molestation from her as if already ten ihousand 
miles of water flowed between them. JNo impulse urged her, as 
she had feared, to throw herself at his feet and tell him she could 
never leave him again, that he must give up home and children for 
her sake. No, she felt she could sit in his presence till morning, 
watch him playing with his children, chatting familiarly with his- 
so-called wife, and never even wish to claim him as her own, be- 
cause her love for him was dead. She cared no more for him for 
whom she had sacrified her youth, almost her life. 

She watched him passing out, followed by his family, then rose 
with a bewildered gesture, scarcely knowing where she was. She 
looked at her companion, still sleeping in her corner, from her to 
Ivlrs. Dennys, who came flouncing in for the fourth and last lime, 
and who addressed her unceremoniously. 

“Oh! Can you tell me, please, if my maid has returned? No? 
If she does will you tell her the box has been found, and we — ” 
Then, the maid appearing, she went on, “ Oh, here you are! The 
box has turned up and we are ready to start at last. Are the chil- 
dren in the landau? 1 am taking Master Percy in the brougham 
with me. Be sure you put my dressing-case on the front seat. 1 
think that’s all. Oh, if ever 1 travel with such a nursery again !’^ 
she muttered, impatiently fastening on a gauze veil before the glass. 
“ 1 wonder where Paul is? Does he intend driving in the brough- 
am or landau? I haven’t seen — ” 

“ Mr. Dennys, madam, has gone on foot— he said it was such a 
fine night he would like the walk across the fields.” 

“Fine night! Why, it is raining hard and blowing almost a gale. 
Extraordinary idea!” 

At last the station was clear of Mrs. Dennys, her nursery, maids, 
and footmen ; and Helen, unable to bear the air of the room where 
so many emotions had been crowded, went out to breathe in the 
gale. 

She hurried along heedless of where she was going, her cumbrbus^ 


108 


MY POOE WIFE. 


bonnet swinging in her hand, her cloak flying out behind her like 
a great black wing. 

Was she glad or sorry, relieved or disappointed? Had she ever 
loved him at all, even in those sunny days before she had heard 
Edith’s name? if she had lived out her life in peace by his side, if 
he had never wanted to desert her, never cared for another, would 
she in time have come to feel toward him as she felt at that moment? 
Would he have fallen by degrees from the pedestal on which she 
had placed him, or would he have always remained enthroned in 
her foolish infatuated eyes? 

These and a hundred other questions she asked herself vainly, as 
she hurried through the storm; but she could find no answer, her 
mind was racked for the moment, the only feeling clear to her w^as 
a sense of self-pity and contempt for the years she had wasted in 
futile anguish. 

Even now the tempter whispered, was it too late? After all she 
was only twenty-six — years of youth lay before her if she wished. 
Why not coax fire and life back to her dimmed eyes, paint her pale 
cheeks, let her dark hair grow, and taste pleasure after her long fast 
therefrom? Why not bring men to her feet, shallow faithless men, 
as she had done before — make other wives weep as she had wept? 
Surely she had endured enough already; was there sense in don- 
ning sackcloth and ashes to the end, denying herself constantly, liv- 
ing in the midst of misery, disease, and death, when she had been 
no willful sinner, but one who had been sinned against from the 
beginning? 

Thus cynically musing, she leaned over the bridge under which 
she had once passed, fighting unconsciously for the life she had 
longed to destroy, and peered into the dark water. 

“ What a fool 1 was— what a wild mad fool,” she laughed bitter- 
ly; ” and my mother before me! Only there was no turning back 
for you, poor mother— no turning back for you!” 

With a shudder she passed aimlessly on, her short hair blowing 
about her face, and went into the church-yard again. She paused 
among the reeds, then, turning down the side path that led to the 
cross, the moon shone full for a moment upon the dreary spot, and 
she distinctly saw the figure of a man stretched face downward on 
her grave, and that man was Edith’s husband. 

With a stifled scream, her hands instinctively flying to her face, 
she started back, and Paul, looking up, saw her. She heard his 
voice upraised in a loud cry — a cry that went to her heart like a 
knife and sent every nerve in her body quivering with the fierce 
pain of old, which she Jiad believed stilled forever; one second’s 
scared inaction and the next she was away across the church-yard, 
flying as if for her life. 

Soon she heard his voice, then his footsteps following eagerly. 
Kedoubling her speed she struggled on, knocking against headstones 
and cypresses, stumbling over the low grassy mounds that covered 
the nameless dead, longing for some grave to open and ingulf her, 
for the sufliocating waters to close round her again and bear her out 
of reach of him, whom she, alas, still loved better than her own life 
or her eternal welfare, whose peace, home, happiness she was about 
to destroy forever. 


MY POOH WIFE. 


109 


Her breath came in paniing gasps, the ground surged under her 
teel. Nearer and nearer came the pursuinir sounds, and clearer the 
entreating voice. Unless the moon would slip behind that bank of 
heavy cloud, toward which it was traveling, oh, so slowly, and en- 
able her to drop into the ditch that lined the church-yard, in three 
more strides, she felt that all was lost, the purpose of her seven 
years’ struggle in vain — in vain — oh, svorse than a thousand times 
in vain, she knew! 

It was. She never reached the sheltering ditch, his hand fell 
heavily upon her shoulder, and, with a moan of despair, the poor 
soul dropped to the ground and lay at his feet cowering and whim- 
pering in the wet gi ass like a frightened child. 

After a short silent struggle he lifted her up and plucked her 
hands from her face. 

“ It is you— you!” he cried. ” Helen, my wife— oh, heavens!” 

The moon, just grazing the murky mass of vapor, covered them 
in her wan white glare. Helen, numb with horror, looked at him 
whom a short half hour before she had seen in the bloom of pros- 
perous comely prime, now changed — changed into a haggard, storm- 
beaten, aged man, witli dimmed heavy tyes, worn wistful face, and 
hair plentifully sprinkled with gray, robbed of youth, health, hope, 
peace, by that moment’s glance at her. 

At this piteous sight love rose in arms, quickened her fainting 
soul, and roused her riumbed limbs to resistance. She struggled 
and shook him ofi fiercely 

” Who— who are you? How dare you — you touch me? What 
do you mean? Are you— you mad, or — or tipsy, to assault a harm- 
less stranger like that? 1 — I — ” 

‘‘Helen, Helen,” he exclaimed, in a sighing whisper — “oh, 
Helen!” 

She stammered, stopped, swayed iresolutely, then burst out vio- 
lently— 

“ Helen! Why do you call me that? I— 1 am not Helen. She 
—she was drowned seven years ago in that water. You know it — 
you know it as well as 1. You — must be— must be — mad! Oh, go 
back— go back, 1 tell you, to your wife, your children, your home 
— go, and let me depart.” 

” 1 have no home, no children, no wife but you.” 

His arms were round her, pinioning hers tightly to her side, his 
hot breath fanning her face. 

” Liar! ’ she panted, pushing his lips from her. ‘‘ Liar! 1 saw 
you, not an hour ago, at the station with her, your children in your 
arms — 1 heard you — ” 

‘‘You saw my brother Arthur with his children and his wife, to 
whom he has been married for the last ten years— not me. Helen, 
my wife, love of my life, how could you treat me so — how?” he 
asked, tears choking his voice. 

“Your brother Arthur and h!s wife — not you — not you!” she 
murmured dizzily, and closed her eyes. “ 1 think — 1 think — 1 
knew it all along. Oh, 1 think I knew it wasn’t you!” 

******* 

He took her to a little quiet village within sound of the sea she 
loved so well, and then by strict medical injunctions kept from her 


110 


MY POOR WIFE, 


all subjects likely to disturb or agitate her mind. It was no difficult 
taks; she never once alluded to tlie past, or showed any anxiety to 
learn the history of the seven years they had spent apart — a blissful 
lethargy came over her, and the mere fact of living, /Of being 
together again, was sufficient for her. She wanted no explanation,, 
no mutual confession, no excursion back into the land of trouble and 
sorrow she had left, he assured her, behind forever. But it wa& 
different with him. Jealousy even in the supreme moment of hi& 
happiness was already gnawing at his heart, and he knew he could 
not live with her in peace and let those seven years sleep. 

One day, about a week after their reunion, she was well enough 
to take a little turn on the shore; the soft salt breeze blowing in 
her face brought there a tinge of returning health and youth that 
tempted him to make an effort to recall the past. She looked at 
him with mournful eyes, then said, with peevish pathos— 

“ What— can you not let me be, Paul? 1 am alive and happy 
now — why drag me back to death and torment? 1 want to forget 
it all— all.” 

‘‘ And so do 1,” he answered eagerly; “ but 1 can not, I can not,, 
wife, if 5^ou will not speak. Men are different from women, and, 
if 1 do not know how and where you spent those seven years, they 
will poison my peace until the day 1 die. Tell me now, and 1 will 
forget them, put them from me after this hour, no matter what — 
what you may tell me.” 

She sighed restlessly and then spoke. 

“So be it. The first three years after 1 left home, 1— I spent, 
Paul, in — in a—” She stopped, her eyes fell, she slipped her little 
wasted hand wistfully into his. 

“Go on,” he said hoarsely. “You— you have begun; 1 must 
hear all now. You spent in a—” 

“ Lunatic asylum, a pauper lunatic asylum outside London.” 

“My darling! Oh, my poor darling!” he cried, covering her 
hand with kisses, in a burst of compassion and relief. 

“ Our — our liitle son was born there,” she continued softly, after 
a slight pause, “and after a few weeks of life went peacefully to 
heaven. He — he was a nice little child, they told me, Paul, with 
fair hair like yours, and very dark eyes. 1 — 1 don’t remember him 
at all, but they kept me this lock of his hair; it’s pretty and soft, 
isn’t it? Poor little mite! 1 never gave him a thought or a tear; he 
was as well without, I dare say.” 

“ The night you left me you went straight to— to the asylum?” 
he prompted, after a long pause, during which they had sat with 
trembling hands close clasped. 

“JNo, no, to the river- to the river,” she answered quickly and 
feverishly, a bright spot burning in her cheek. “ 1 v/as mad, you 
know, quite— quite mad, though 1 knew what 1 — was trying to do, 
and remembered it afterward. You got my letter? You heard 
about my poor mother, how 1 deceived you — how they all deceived 
you— yes?” She paused to take breath, then went quickly as if 
she were repeating a lesson she loathed, but was forced to say: 

“ 1 wanted to kill m^^self and end it all — 1 saw no harm. 1 jumped 
off the first bridge above the church-yard where the water was deep, 
and the weight of my clothes kept me under until I was half- 


MY POOR WIFE. 


Ill 


drowned; then nature asserted itself. 1 could swim, you know, in 
the wildest seas, and, no longer able to bear the agony of suftocation 
even in my madness, 1 struck out for the bank, and then 1 suppose 
— for 1 remember nothing clearly after that— wandered aimlessly 
across the country all night and next day. 1 was taken up as a 
homeless vagrant, lodged in a poorhouse, and thence sent to the 
asylum, where after a couple of years memory by degrees came back 
to me. 

“ 1 made cautious inquiries, and found to my surprise that my 
miserable identity was quite lost. 1 had given no hint, uttered no 
name during my stay there, that would lead to discovery. 1 learned 
that the clothes 1 wore when taken up by the police were mere rags 
of the coarsest, most loathsome kind, and a bit of soiled paper bear- 
ing the name ‘ Elizabeth Thompson ' found in the pocket of the dress 
served as my certificate of baptism, and so Elizabeth Thompson 1 
remained to all who met me during those seven years. When and 
how my clothes were changed and stolen, as they undoubtedly were, 
1 don’t remember. After three years 1 was discharged as cured, 
and, as I had shown some capability tor nursing during an epidemic 
that visited the asylum, a kind nun who had charge of the Catholic 
ward ofl;ered to get me a place as attendant in a hospital, where I re- 
mained some time.” 

” And you never thought of me — never longed to see me, to know 
how 1—” 

She laughed bitterly, as she waved the eager interruption aside, 
with a gesture of pain. 

‘ ‘ Never thought of you ! Ah, you will never know how you filled 
my life, can never understand what 1 felt— and suffered! 1 knew 
you must believe me dead, and 1 knew the best thing tor your hap- 
piness, your peace of mind, was to let you remain in that belief. 1 
struggled to keep away from you, to learn nothing about you; but, 
when nursing a patient whom 1 casually heard had lately been in 
domestic service in the neighborhood of Col worth, 1 could not resist 
the temptation of questioning her. From her 1 learned, Paul, that 
Mr. Dennys of Colworth was married to a Miss Stopford, with 
whom he had inherited a large fortune, that he was very happy and 
prosperous, and the father of three beautiful children. 

‘‘ This news allayed all my doubts, drove every lingering spark of 
hope and happiness from my future. 1 begged the reverend mother 
who had procured me the place in the hospital to accept me as a 
novice; but she hesitated tor some time, knowing of the taint in my 
blood. However, after a couple of years, seeing no sign of a re- 
lapse, and getting a very favorable opinion of my case from the 
asylum doctors, 1 was received into the convent, and on application 
allowed to join the mission going to New Zealand. 

We were to have sailed next week, and as the time drew near a 
terrible restlessness came over me, a longing so intense to breathe the 
air you breathed once more, that 1 felt 1 could never be a useful and 
contented servant of Heaven unless my longing were gratified. 1 
appealed to the reverend mother, and she with her usual goodness 
gave her consent. 1 arrived at dusk that— that blessed night, intend- 
ing only to say a prayer for you and yours at the cross preserving 
memory, and then steal away as 1 had come, 


112 


MY POOR AYIFE. 


“ At the Station 1 saw your brother accidentally, believing him to 
be you— bis features are wonderfully like what yours once were. ] 
found to my utter bewilderment, and 1 think relief, thaf my lov^e 
was dead- ^completely dead, that Edith’s husband was /Nothing to 
me. / 

“ 1 wandered out, pondering the meaning of this discovery, and 
saw you stretched across my grave. At the first sound of your voice, 
at the first glance into ydur worn, altered face— ah, beloved, 1 knew 
that 1 was not tree, and could never be, no matter what gulf divided, 
us. 1 tried to save you, as 1 thought— to leave you; but — but — ” 
She Slopped a little hysterically, and he laid liis hand on her lips. 
Presently she lifted it away, and said with eager wistfulness — 

“ But you loved her, Paul, sister-in-law or not; you can not ex- 
plain that away. No, no; do not try. You Avanted to marry her be- 
fore you met me. 1 am sure of it. You loved her — you wanted to 
marry her once,” she repeated monotonously. 

” Yes, yes, 1 wanted to marry her once. Listen, listen to me, 
Helen! 1 was a mere boy, home from an outskirt station in India, 
where 1 never saw a woman’s face. 1 was lonely and sad; she was 
kind and beautiful, and did everything in her power to fascinate and 
enslave me. How could I help falling into the trap? 1 left her in 
a state of melodramatic despair, which 1 now know was only skin 
deep, though 1 believed at the time she had dealt me a life- wound. 
1 met you; we were married and spent six months together 
abroad. Ah, Helen,* 1 did not understand until long afterward how 
happy those six months were, how thoroughly they had made you 
part of my life, the very essence of my content and happiness. 
For 1 was happy; but blind, conceited dolt that 1 was, attributed 
my contented state of being to my own unselfishness and generosity 
in marrying you, and accepted as my due your devotion to me. 
Well, well, 1 was punished, cruelly punished for it all. 1 lived to 
linger over every day, every hour of those short six months with a 
yearning passion, a sickening remorse that left those lines you see 
on my face, aod streaked my hair with gray before 1 had reached, 
the prime of life. 

” When we returned she came across my path again, and necessity 
compelled her to confide a secret to me. When 1 learned by it how 
shamefully she had been treated, 1 believed 1 had misjudged her 
cruelly, and was only too eager to offer any reparation in my power. 

1 felt that no sacrifice or exertion 1 could make would atone for the 
ii reparable wrong done her by one of my name, and — ” 

” Your brother Arthur, you mean; he had — ” 

” He had forced her— an ignorant thoughtless girl of sixteen— to 
marry him secretly when she was staying with an invalid aunt in 
Londom” 

** Of sixteen!” she exclaimed eagerly. ”You mean that she — 
she was your brother’s wife before I left you— all— all that time^ 
she was with us, your brother's wife?” 

‘‘Yes, yes. At first the excitement, and adventure had pleased 
her, but later on, when she came to know Arthur’s true character 
and mode of life— how he had squandered his fortune, was shunned 
by honest men and respectable women— when her uncle, who had, 
heard some rumor of childish attachment between the pair, informed 


MY POOK WIFE. 


113 


her that, if she exchanged another word with Arthur, he would not 
only alter his will, and leave her penniless, but would expel her from 
his home, her complacency changed to a state of misery and almost 
unbearable suspense, which by degrees taught her to hate the cause 
of her selfish terror, and made his existence a positive nightmare 
to her. 

“ At last, after a stormy interview Arthur consented to emigrate 
to Australia, pledging his word to rornmn perdu there until the 
general should die, and Edith’s inheritance be quite safe. 

“He sailed, but, after a time, tiring of colonial life, broke his 
solemn promise, and a month after oui arrival at Colworth he turned 
up at Southampton, and Edith in her terror of discovery confided 
her secret to me, implored me to help her, and induce my brother 
to return to Australia at once. 

“ I promised to help her by every means in my power, wrote at 
once to my brother, begging him tc leave; but he refused point- 
blank until he had had at least one interview with his wife, whom, 
with all his faults, 1 believe he truly loved, as his conduct within 
the last seven years has amply proved. Seeing he was not to be 
shaken, we arranged that the meeting should take place at Colworth,. 
where there would be less chance of detection. It was in vain. 1 
begged Edith to let you share the secret; she was indexible on the 
point. Her motive for that reserve at the time 1 thought trivial and 
unreasonable; but 1 have since fathomed the terrible overweening 
vanily and heartlessness of the woman, and can now understand it 
perfectly. She was jealous of you, my darling; that I should so 
quickly have recovered from her wanton attack was a stab her 
vanity resented bitterly; she saw more clearly than 1 could see my- 
self — dull fool — how thoroughly happy 1 was, how dear you were 
to me; and so she set about, with a thousand nameless, almost in- 
tangible wiles and artifices, to wreck the happiness of the man who 
was sheltering and protecting her, fighting to preserve her fortune 
and honor. With broken, half-stified hints and innuendoes, she 
gave me to understand that 1 would have been her choice had 1 
spoken long ago, before my brother — tried by every means in her 
power to wean me from your infiuence, to force on me the fact thai 
1 had made a tremendous sacrifice in marrying you, that my chival- 
rous and tender bearing toward you awoke in her feelings that made 
her own wretched fate almost unbearable, and, at the same time, 1 
presume, from what I’ve heard, that you, my poor darling, did not 
escape her — ” 

“ Paul, that time you left me alone with her, when you went to 
London—” 

” To meet her husband— yes?’' 

“ She told me— not at once, you know, but by degrees— it— it took 
three days, Paul— that you — you had loved her passionately for 
years, that you had proposed to her a tew days before you met me, 
that, even after her first refusal, you had followed her about London, 
trying to make her change her mind, and that, failing that, you — 
you had rushed back to Ireland in wrath and despair, and— and mar- 
ried me—” 

“ She told you that— the jade?” 


114 


MY POOR WIFE. 


** Not boldly, as 1 tell you now, but with little hints and jokes, 
half-laughing sighs that were almost worse/’ 

“ My poor brother! Well, my darling, the end came. ‘You 
followed us that night, and saw the meeting between husband and 
wife,” 

“ Paul, Paul! ITou mean it was not you 1 saw holding her in your 
arms, imploring her to fly?” 

“ No, it was Arthur. We were more alike then than now, love, 
and 1 had lent him my big gray ulster, for he complained of the 
cold! The— the mistake was natural; but, oh, how awful in its con- 
sequences to you and me!” 

“ Go on— oh, go on!” she cried, breathlessly. 

“ When — when convinced of your terrible death, brain-fever set 
in, and for some months I was unconscious of my loss. 1 recov- 
ered, rose from my sick bed, wrecked in heart and body, the love, 
hope, happiness of my life buried in your grave. 1 left Europe — 
traveled aimlessly in Asia and America for six years. In the mean- 
time the old general had died suddenly a few weeks after your dis- 
appearance, leaving his niece sixty thousand pounds in hard cash, 
but the Hall and surrounding property to a male relative. 

“ Edith married Arthur publicly almost at once, and they settled 
down at Colworth, renting the place from me. A few months ago 
my brother, who is now a most exemplary member of society, wrote 
asking me if 1 would not sell my interest in it, and let them entail 
it on their eldest son, as it was my avowed intention not to marry 
again. 1 could not make up niy mind, and came home to settle the 
business. 

“ A few days ago at the Langham 1 met my brother and his wife 
for the first time since their second marriage, and he persuaded me 
to try to visit the old place again. 1 came down with them, and 
walked across the fields to the cross which bore your name. When 
1 saw the familiar spot, the house among the trees, the cruel mill, 
heard the mournful rustle of the leaves and the ripple of the water, 
all the old pain broke out as fiercely as on the day 1 lost you. 1 threw 
myself upon your grave, calling out your name. Your voice an- 
swered me. 1 looked up, and saw you, Helen, standing in the moon- 
light before me. ’ ’ 

******* 

Two months after her installation at Colworth, Mrs. Arthur 
Dennys, her lord and master, nursery, horses, carriages, lackeys, and 
maid were storming the sleepy country station again, en route for a 
Sydenham villa residence, where she still bemoans the ill luck of 
W eldest born, who will never now inherit Colworth. 


THE END, 


ADVERTISEMENTS, 



THE BEST 

fasMni Coipoit 

EVER INVENTED. 

"No Lady, Married or Sin- 
gle, Rich or Poor, House- 
keeping or Boarding, will 
be without it after testing 
its utility. 

Sold by all first-class 
Grocers, but beware of 
worthless imitations. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRART.-Cloai Edition. 


HANDSOMELY BOUND. 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 


Oliver Twist .. 60e 

Martin Chuzzlewlt 50c 

The Old Curiosity Shop 60e 

l>avld Copperlield 60c 

Dombey and Son 60c 

Nicholas Niekleby 60c 

Pickwick Papers 60c 


Bleak House 

Little Dorrit 

Barnaby Rudgre 

A Tale of Two Cities 
Our Mutual Friend... 
Great Expectations... 
Christmas Stories 


GEORGE ELIOT’S WORKS. 


Adam Bede 60e j The Mill on the Floss. 

Daniel Deronda 60c Romola 

Middlemarch 60c 


50o 

60o 

6©e 

.'iOe 

60c 

50e 

60e 


60c 

60c 


Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Extra large type. By Lewis Carroll. 

With forty-two illustrations by John Tenniel 60c 

The Publisher will send any of the above works by mail, postage prepaid, on 

receipt of the price. 

All the books in the Pocket Edition of The Seaside Library can also be ob- 
tained in the Cloth Edition, handsomely bound. Price, 50 cents each. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street. 


WHAT IS SAPOLIO? 


It is a solid, 
handsome cake 
of scouring soap, 
which has no 


equal for all cleaning purposes except tlie laundry. To use it is to value it. 

What will Sapolio do? Why, it will clean paint, make oil-cloths bright, and 
give the floors, tables and shelves a new appearance. 

It will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and pans. 

You can scour the knives and forks with it, and make the tin things shine 
brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub, even the greasy kitchen sink, will be 
as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLIO. One cake will prove all we 
say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it. 

BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. 


MUNRO^S publications, 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 

Ed-ition- 


The following books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postage prepaid, by the publisher, on receipt of 12 cents for 
single numbers, IT cents for special numbers, and 25 cents for double num- 
bers. Parties within reach of newsdealei’s will please get the books through 
them and thus avoid paying extra for postage. Those wishing the Pocket 
Edition of The Seaside Library must be careful to mention the Pocket 
Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. 

Any of the following works, handsomely bound in cloth, will be sent by 
mail, postage paid, on receipt of 50 cents, by the publisher. 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, and 
number required, to 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 
(P.O.Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


so. PRICE. 

1 Yolande. By William Black 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By “The Duch- 

ess ” 20 

3 The Mill on the Floss. By George 

Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida ” 20 

6 The Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

■6 Portia. By “ The Duchess” 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “ Ouida ” 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

11 John Halifnx, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “The Duch- 

ess ............ 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 20 

16 Phyllis. By “The Duchess”... 20 

IT The Wooing O’t. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 15 

18 Shandon Bells. By William 

Black 20 

19 Her Mother's Sin. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times. 

By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. A^ol. H 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William 

Black 20 


NO. PRICE. 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 
Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. H 20 

25 Blrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile Ga- 

boriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile Ga- 

boriau. Vol. II 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott, 

Bart 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot 39 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 29 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot - . 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

38 The Widow Lerouge. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William 

Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dick- 

ens 15 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. By 

^^ile Gaboriau 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY -Pocket Edition. 


1^0, PRICE. 


44 Macleod of Dare. By William 

Black 20 

•45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Eeade 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 

phant 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James 

Payn • 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton. By William Black. 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the author of 

“ Her Mother’s Sin ” 20 

52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

63 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

55 The Three Guardsmen. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront§. . 20 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 

Christie Murray 10 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Fenimore Coop- 

er 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles 

Gibbon.... 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man. By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more 30 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Mad oh' n’s Lover. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 

mance. By William Black. . . 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddel] 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 

ander Dumas 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”.. . 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Chas. 

Dickens 15 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wra. Black 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 


NO. PRICE. 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. 

Black 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By Fortun6 Du 

Boisgobey 20 

83 A Strange Story. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

84 Hai d Times. By Charles Dick- 

ens 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. By Cap- 

tain Mariyat 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”... 10 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiogra- 

phy 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

95 The Fire Brigade. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden I’air. By Walter 

Besant 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Chai les 

Reade 15 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie 

Collins 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey 30 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saun- 

ders 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. B}' Charles 

Dickens 40 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold. By Charles 
Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Rus- 

sell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John 

Hill sa 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


wo. PRICE. 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companioii, By M. 

Q. Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C. J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By“Ouida” ...20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Eric 

Dering. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 
*19 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ’* 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. .. 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By 

Sir E. BulwerLytton 40 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

239 The Romantic Adventures of a 
Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him I By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood ^ 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan.. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 20 

^ Thoms and Orange-Blossoms. 

^ the author of “ Dora 
'^nonie”.. 10 


NO. PRICB. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight.. 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By MissM. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 
chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas... 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. By Florence 
Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler... 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. BuL 

wer Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 
rell SO 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bui wer Lytton 16 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By William MakepeaceiThack- 
eray 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 
Dickens and Wilkie Collins... 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus SO 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. . 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 
Stories. By Wilkie Collins... 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Far jeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan JO 

122 The MillionaireL ANoveS*..... 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, — Pocket Edition. 


KO. PRICK. 

,183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat. . . 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 


jendie 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James 

Payn 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 5 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far I” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

David Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

^200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 
thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

•206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade . . 10 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade 15 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 15 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 15 

217 I’he Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson.. 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 15 
819 Lady Clare ; or, The Master of 

Jihe Forges. By Georges Ohpet 10 


NO. PRICE. 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 15 

222 The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 Tlie Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 15 

226 Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da” 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 15 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade, .. lO 

233 “ISay No;” or, the Love-Letter 

Answered. Wilkie Collins..,. 15 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

235 “It is ' Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade. .. 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure, ly the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida ” 20 

239 Signa. By “ Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh (jonway 10 

241 The Babv’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” K) 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret, By “ Rita ” . . 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood : m 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B, Walford m 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY —Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford.. .. 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Monte-Crisfco.” By Alexander 
Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. B 5 ’^F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Islimaelite. By Miss M. E. 


Braddon 15 

264 Piddouche, A French Detective. 

By Fortund Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. AFa‘iiyTale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 
Charles Kingsley. 16 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser's Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew^ Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marry at.. 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henrj’ Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 15 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
884 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . .. 10 


NO. PRICE, 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 26 

286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 26 

287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. a “Brutal 


Saxon ” 1€^ 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay .. 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thome” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” lOt 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 1(J 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne”. 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. Ey Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a, 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thome” 1® 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 29 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 2d 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week inKillarney. By “The 

Duchess” 19 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill.... 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 26 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh MUler 8t 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY —Pocket Edition. 


817 By Mead and Stream. Charles 
Gibbon 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Cliristie Murray 10 

121 The Prodigals: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
822 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

826 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 
829 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee .... 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

833 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

834 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel.,.. 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

J37 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

8G8 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary, 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “The Duchess”.... 10 
843 The Talk of the Town. By 


0 0,111^0 xajfn . .w 

844 “The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

845 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir.. 10 

847 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

^ From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 


NO. PRICE, 

349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 29 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith ... 10 

351 The House on the Moor. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 


Felbermann 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon...* 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crof ton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret; or, The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 

375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 
Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story 

of the Scottish Reformation. 

By Mrs. Oliphant 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 


378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters: or, Sketches of 

a Higrhly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Aide 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman ; or. The Abbaye 

des Vignerous. B}’^ J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or. “La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave Feuillet. . . 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

Charlotte French 20 


388 Addie’s Husband; or, Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?” 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “The 


Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Louiian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

Jules Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey .*. 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

ridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Alary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville \. 20 

410 Old Lady Alary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 


NO. PRICE, 

411 A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20> 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Crokei 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Alaid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20' 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Alanuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Alanu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J.Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bai t., AI.P., 
formerly known as “ Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z^ro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Airs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and 

Old Populations. By Wiliam 
Sime 10 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the 

author of “By Crooked Paths” 10 

431 The Alonikins. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider 

Haggard 26 

433 Aly Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainy June. 

By “Ouida” 10 

434 Wy Hard’s Weird. By Aliss AI. 

E. Braddon 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor — 20 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Alartin 

Chuzzlewit, By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Alartin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 


(r) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 


438 Found Out. Helen B. Mathers. 10 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

441 A Sea Change. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of The Albany. . . 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

445 The Shadow of a Crime. By 

Hall Caine 20 

446 Dame Durden. By “Rita” 20 

447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgiana 

M. Craik 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 

the Bar. By G. J. Whyte- 
Melville 20 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

453 The Lottery Ticket. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 


456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative of 

Every-day Life and Every-day 
People. By Charles Dickens. 20 

457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. By Charles Marvin ... 10 

458 A Week of Passion ; or. The Di- 

lemma of Mr. George Barton 
the Younger. By Edward Jen- 


kins 20 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 

460 Under a Shadow. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ Ladybird’s Penitence ”. . 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 

land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty-two illustrations by 
John Tenniel 20 

463 Redgauntlet. Sir Walter Scott. 20 

464 The Newcomes. By Wm. Make- 

peace Thackeray. Parti 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 


NO. PRICE. 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 

of a Sewing-Girl. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 

By William Black 10 

473 A Lost Son. By Mary Lin skill. 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

By George Ebers 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

476 Between Two Sins. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 

day. By Mrs. Campbell Praed. 10 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter 

By MissM. E. Braddon. Parti. 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter 

By Miss M. E. Braddon. Partll. 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

480 Married in Haste. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

481 The House that Jack Built. By 

Alison 10 

482 A Vagrant Wife. By F. Warden 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. For- 
rester 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 

Cobban lO 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “The 

Duchess” ? 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

490 A Second Life. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

491 Society in London. By A For- 

eign Resident 10 

492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated II) 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 

bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 

500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris. 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. 

Mabel Robinson 20 

502 Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh Con- 

way, author of “Called Back ” 10 
504 : Curiy : An Actor's Story. By 
John Coleman. Illustrated. 

My Poor Wife. By the author 
of “ Addie’s Husband ” 10 


Read “ The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet.” Price 25 cents. 


iMiTrn^Tiso’S 


DIALOeUES AND SPEAKERS. 


PRICH TEN CENTS. 


These books embrace a series of Dialogues and Speeches, all 
new and original, and are just what is needed to give spice and mer- 
riment to Social Parties, Home Entertainments, Debating Societies,, 
School Recitations, Amateur Theatricals, etc. They contain Irish,^ 
German, Negro, Yankee, and, in fact, all kinds of Dialogues and 
Speeches. The following are the titles of the books: 

No. 1. THE FUNNY FELLOW’S DIALOGUES. 

No. 2. THE CLEMENCE AND DONKEY DIALOGUES. 
No. 3. MRS. SMITH’S BOARDERS’ DIALOGUES. 
No. 4. SCHOOLBOYS’ COMIC DIALOGUES. 


No. 1. TOT I KNOW ’BOUT GRUEL SOCIETIES SPEAKER. 
No. 2. JOHN B. GO-OFF COMIC SPEAKER. 

No. 3. MY BOY VILHELM’S SPEAKER. 

The above titles express, in a slight degree, the contents of the 
books, which are conceded to be the best series of mirth -provoking. 
Speeches and Dialogues extant. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. T. 


P. O. Box 3761. 


JUST ISSUED 


JULIET CORSON’S 

NEW FAMILY COOK BOOK. 

BY MISS JUL.IET CORSON, 

Author of “ Meals for the Million,” etc., etc. 

Teacher of Cooking at the New York Cooking School. 


Price; Paper Edition, 50 cents; Handsomely Bound in Cloth, $1.00, 

A COMPLETE COOK BOOK 

For Family Use in City and Country. 

CONTAINING 

PRACTICAL RECIPES AND FULL AND PLAIN DIREC- 
TIONS FOR COOKING ALL DISHES USED 
. IN AMERICAN HOUSEHOLDS. 

The Best and Most Economical Methods ot Cooking Meats, Fish^ 
Vegetables, Sauces, Salads, Puddings and Pies. 

How to Prepare Relishes and Savory Accessories, Picked-up Dishes^ 
Soups, Seasoning, Stuffing and Stews. 

How to Make Good Bread, Biscuit, Omelets, Jellies, Jams, Pan- 
cakes, Fritters and Fillets. 


Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipes 
have been carefully tested in the New York Cooking School. If her directions 
are carefully followed there will be no failures and no reason for complaint. 
Her directions are always plain, very complete, and easily followed. 

Juliet Corson’s New Family Cook Book 

Is sold by all newsdealers. It will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price: 
paper edition, 50 cents; handsomely bound in cloth, $1.00, by 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

(P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater St., New York, 


THE NEW YORK 

FASHION BAZAR BOOK OF THE TOILET. 

PR1€£ 2S CEI^TS. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box3T51. 17 to 27 Van dewater Street, New York. 


THIS IS A LITTLE BOOK 

WHICH 

WE CAN RECOMMEND TO EVERY LADY 

FOR THE 

TEESERVATIOK AND INCEEASE OF HEALTH AND BEAUTY. 

IT CONTAINS FULL DIRECTIONS FOR ALL THE 

ARTS AND MYSTERIES OF PERSONAL DECORATION, 

AND FOR 

Increasing the Natural Graces of Form and Expression. 

ALL THE LITTLE AFFECTIONS OF THE 

Hsiir, Esres ancL Boca-37' 

THAT DETRACT FROM APPEARANCE AND HAPPINESS 

Are Made the Subjects of Precise and Excellent Recipes. 

Ladies Are Instructed How to Reduce Their Weight 

With-out Injury to Health and Without Producing 
Pallor and Weakness. 


NTOTHING NECESSARY TO 

A COMPLETE TOILET BOOK OE RECIPES 

AND 

VALUABLE ADVICE AND INFOEMATION 
HAS BEEN OVERLOOKED IN THE COMPILATION OF THIS VOLUME. 

For sale by all Newsdealers, or sent to any address on receipt of the price, 
postage prepaid, by the Publisher. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY 


A Series of the Most Thrilling Detectivg Stories Ever Published! 


The following books are now ready. Others of this series in 

preparation. 


No. 1, OliD SLEUTH THE DETECTIVE. 

A dashing romance, detailing in graphic style the hair-breadth escapes and 
thrilling adventures of a veteran agent of the law. 

No. THE KING OF THE DETECTIVES. 

In this story the shrewdness and cunning of a master mind are delineated 

in a fascinating manner. 

No. 3. OLD SLEUTH’S TRIUMPH. 

IN TWO HALVES— 10 CENTS EACH. 

The crowning triumph of the great detective’s active career is reached after 
undergoing many exciting perils and dangers. 

No. 4. UNDER A MILLION DISGUISES. 

The many subterfuges by which a detective tracks his game to justice are^ 
all described in a graphic manner in this great story. 

No. 5.— NIGHT SCENES IN NEW YORK. 

An absorbing story of life after dark in the great metropolis. All the- 
various features of metropolitan life— the places of amusement, high, 
and low life among the night-hawks of Gotham, etc., are realistically 
described in this delightful story. 

No. 6.-OLD ELECTRICITY, THE LIGHTNING DETECTIVE. 

For ingenuity of plot, quick and exciting succession of dramatic incidents^ 
this great story has not an equal in the whole range of detective literature^ 

No. 7.-THE SHADOW DETECTIVE. 

This thrilling story is a masterpiece of entrancing fiction. The wonderful 
exploits and hair-breadth escapes of a clever law-agent are all described 
in brilliant style. 

No. 8.-RED LIGHT WILL, THE RIVER DETECTIVE. 

In this splendid romance, lovers of the weird, exciting phases of life on the 
teeming docks and wharfs of a great city, will find a mine of thrilling 
interest. 

No. 9.-IRON BURGESS, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE. 

The many sensational incidents of a detective’s life in chasing to cover the 
sharks who prey upon the revenue of the Government are all described in 
a fascinating manner. The story will hold the reader spell-bound with in- 
terest from beginning to end. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers at 10 cents each, or 
will be sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt of 12 cents, by the 
publisher. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York* 


P, O. Box 3751. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 


ORl>i:^AltY El>IXIO]^. 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
(P.O.Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y, 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by th^ 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Yereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WIIXIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 


THE 


New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERIOAIT HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 25 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price $2.50 per Year. 


The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It contains 
everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. The fashions in dress 
which it publishes are new and reliable. Particular attention is devoted to 
fashions for children of all ages. Its plates and descriptions will assist every 
lady in the preparation of her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and re- 
modeling old ones. The fashions are derived from the best houses and are 
always practical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make her own 
dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are carefully cut to 
measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the garment. They are use- 
ful in altering old as well as in making new clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the magazine. 
Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, and new patterns given in 
every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home informa- 
tion, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes for cooking have 
each a department. — 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duchess,” author 
of ‘‘Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, author of 
‘‘ Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, author of 
“Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of ‘‘The House on the Marsh.” 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the best that 
can be had. 

We employ no canvassers to solicit subscriptions for The New York Fashion 
Bazar. All persons representing themselves as such are swindlers. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per copy. Subscription price $2.50 per year. Address 

aEOSGE KUNBO, Fulslishdr, 

17 to 27 Vande water Street* N. Y. 


P. O. Box 3751 


THE CELEBRATED 



GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 



ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUEAR 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count of their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial ExHibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER ifc CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. ¥• 


FROM THE 
NERVE -GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE AVHEAT 
AND OAT. 

BRAIN AND NERVE FOOD 

€ROSBY’5ii 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralgia and sick headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion : regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


‘‘ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 

Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


THE SEASIDE LIBEABY. 

CLOTH EDITION. 

HANDSOMELY BOUND. 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 


Oliver Twist 60e 

Martin ChiizzleAvIt 50e 

The Old Curiosity Shop 50e 

l>avid Copperfield 60e 

Dombey and Son 50e 

Nicholas Niekleby A>Oc 

Piekwiek Papers SOe 

Bleak House 60e 

Little Dorrlt i>Oe 

Barnaby Rndgre ftOe 

A Tale of Two Cities 50c 

Our Mutual Friend 60c 

Great Expectations 60e 

Christmas Stories 60e 

Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland. Ex- 
tra largre type. By Lewis Carroll. 
With forty-two illustrations by John 
Teiiniel 50« 


Anr of the above works will be sent bj mail, postpaid, 
on receipt of the price. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

17 to fb7 Vandewater St., New Tork. 

P. 0. Kox 3751. 




;V 


A/ .^, m 







A A 


Ay> A r 
A A, A A A A, 








WPIlPI^ 









